


Between

by spockandawe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Animal Play, Ashen Romance | Auspistice, Authority Figures, Body Worship, Bondage, Breathplay, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Caning, Comfort, Desperation, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Emotion Play, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Femdom, First Time, Fisting, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gags, Gillplay, Held Down, Helmsman, Helmsman Kink, Hemospectrum, Knifeplay, M/M, Mind Control, Mommy Kink, Movie Night, Multi, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Nonverbal Communication, Obedience, Oral Fixation, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Past Abuse, Pervertibles, Punishment, Quadrant Vacillation, Safeword Use, Scars, Sensation Play, Sensory Deprivation, Smuppets, Spanking, Stitches, Suspension, Teasing, Voyeurism, Writing on the Body
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-03-15 18:42:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 25,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3457733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots, attempting to write a story for every kink on the kink bingo dreamwidth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rose/Kankri: Negotiation

**Author's Note:**

> [Kink Bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org)  
>   
> 
> There are 98 kinks listed, so nominally that's the number of stories I'm aiming for, each with a different ship. I'm allowing myself to have overlap between twosomes and moresomes, like Rosekri has been written and Rosekrikat is tentatively assigned to one of the other kinks, so this is a great chance to stretch my multishipping muscles! Who knows how far I'll make it, but it should be fun trying to get there!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3457733/chapters/7586999)

                You are doing a poor job of hiding the tremor in your fingers as you attempt to undo the button on your skirt. You aren’t… upset, no. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t _want_ to be here. However, this all is new territory, an intimidating set of new experiences looms and you have no personal knowledge to guide you. The way you fumble your skirt open is entirely reasonable. You will keep telling yourself that.

                However, you _can_ take comfort in the fact that you are doing far better at concealing your nerves than Kankri.

                “And, and I will have you know that it is very insensitive to ask me to remove my clothing at this juncture, as this action could potentially be highly triggering to me—or to you—and I do not believe you have properly taken the time to fully consider the potential ramifications of this request. And indeed, your, your skirt, as well as…”

                You let him go on until he stops to take a breath. “Do you not want to do this?”

                He glares. “ _And_ the assumption that nudity is necessary for, for sexual relations is highly normative, as well as being dismissive of the desires of those who may not fit to the conventional sexual mold—”

                You shut him up with a kiss. Rather, you _try_ to shut him up with a kiss. As it happens, it is… much easier to write that sort of thing than to do it yourself. You end up with your mouth pressed against his as he continues to talk, your lips skid off his teeth, and your nose mashes against his cheek before you recover. You are absolutely _not_ embarrassed and blushing over your failure to be a suave lover.

                It is alright though, because his cheeks are humiliated-red, and he’s stopped talking, which does rather suggest that he’s even more nervous than he’s showing. “For what it’s worth, you are aware that my own life has been—as you put it—relatively chaste, aren’t you?”

                “Yes, yes, you have reminded me of that fact multiple times, yet _without_ consideration that my throughout my life and afterlife I have persisted in the belief that, that I would live—meaning no disrespect to vitality-impaired beings—live on as such, and not that I would be throwing that all away on, on such a whim!”

                “Is it a whim? I do seem to recall weeks of careful negotiations to even begin considering nudity. And even longer to reach this point.” You’re having a great deal of trouble fighting the urge to smile, and hide it by pressing your lips to the side of his neck. “Then perhaps in deference to your sensibilities, I might finish undressing, and as we proceed, you can determine when—or if—you feel comfortable in doing the same.”

                He sniffs and looks away. “I, I. I suppose that is. A reasonable compromise.”

                You take his chin and turn his head back to you for a slow, lingering kiss before you step back. Your hands are, are absolutely steady—there is no reason for them to be unsteady, you are _perfectly at ease_ —as you slip your skirt down over your hips and pull your shirt over your head. One last deep breath, and you bend to step out of your underwear. Then you turn and look back at Kankri over your shoulder. “May I ask for your help with my bra?”

                His hands are as steady as yours.


	2. Damara/Horuss: Vehicular

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: dubious consent, mild helmsman-flavored body horror 
> 
> Inspired by my wonderful giftstuck present [Competitive Subroutines](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3108116) by [Megan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Megan/pseuds/Megan)! If you like this idea, definitely go check that piece out, she really takes the time to explore the concept and setting way more than I did. 
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/112462349251/relationship-damara-horuss-rating-explicit)

                Your engineers are lazy with their maintenance. It is good! They are too stupid to do their jobs, and too stupid to see that by failing to use their power over you, they give _you_ power over _them._

                And you have no interest in letting your body fall apart because they are too worthless for words. They do the maintenance you tell them to do, and they do it _when_ you tell them. And perhaps you have them service in you in more ways than one, yes? It is only fair. This ship is worthless without you, and if you are unhappy, how long will it be before you decide it is easier to helm without a crew?

AA: ENGINEER.  
AA: YOUR SKILLS AS USELESS AS YOUR BULGE.  
AA: PSIONIC OUTPUT LESS THAN FIFTY PERCENT.  
AA: YOU REPAIR ME.  
AA: NOW.  


                Yes, psionic output is less than fifty percent—Because you are _using_ less than fifty percent. Not that your engineers are smart enough to ever realize that. You will never stop laughing at how a little broken grammar makes them ignore just how much power they have given over to you. And Zahhak is a bigger idiot than most. You could tell him you want to fuck him with his own torn-off horns, and he would still obey you. Maybe you will threaten to do that, next time.

                It takes him a few minutes to travel between his quarters and your block. You take the time to unzip your flight suit, all the way down your thorax, almost down to your sheath. Your suit threatens to slip off your rumblespheres with every breath. If your crew maintained you as they should, your wires would not degrade enough for you to use your psionics like this. You are glad you are crewed by incompetent fools.

                Your sheath is already beginning to dilate by the time your engineer steps into the block. His cheeks are already flushed blue and sweat beads on his face. Perhaps he is not such a fool. Perhaps he knows what he is here for. Useless, yes, but maybe not so stupid. _Good_.

                You shred his uniform. He can walk back to his block naked. And you think you will make him thank you for the privilege. His bulge is already twisting between his legs, dripping on your floor. You laugh. You will have him clean that up before he leaves, and if you are feeling generous, you perhaps will not make him use his mouth.

                “Useless engineer—What, you want use your bulge on _me_? Make me your bucket?”

                He wrings his hands, his eyes flickering down to where you bulge is beginning to curl out of your flight suit. “I—You requested—”

                You grab one of his horns with your psionics and drag him forward until he’s so close you could touch him if you still had arms. “ _Too stupid._ You here to be _my_ bucket.”

                He wants to protest—You almost hope he will fight! He is strong, perhaps, but you are a helmsman in her own block. You will break him and love every moment. But he opens his mouth and all that comes out is a moan.

                You just laugh and laugh and laugh. You lift him up into the air and bend his legs back far enough it must hurt. He’s spread open for you like this, and the way he blushes and gasps does nothing to hide how desperate he is for your touch, nook dripping and his bulge coiling uselessly against his stomach. You meant to use him hard and fast, yes, but not if that is what he _wants_. Instead you let your bulge just barely tease at the entrance of his nook and tighten your grip even further as he struggles uselessly against you.

                You think you will make him beg.


	3. Karkat/Equius: Breathplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for choking, mention of death
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/112491617686/relationship-karkat-equius-rating-t-warnings)

                “I can’t do this.”

                You open your eyes to find Karkat rocking back onto his heels, his arms wrapped around his own thorax. You reach up to rub your throat. “I… understand.”

                “But you still _want_ it,” he snaps

                You can’t deny it.

                He glares at you, chewing on his lip. You wonder if perhaps he is waiting on you to say something, though you are uncertain what else there _is_ to say. Finally, he breaks the silence with, “You don’t even have a clue what it was like, do you? Stretch your imagination, if you don’t mind, pretend for one solitary moment that maybe _someone_ in this room hypothetically had to go hunting in a creepy-as-fuck abandoned laboratory for a certain someone else’s corpse. Imagine that they had to double check that wow, yeah, that sure is an impressive lack of vitality right there! Maybe they tried to pull a bowstring out of that certain someone’s neck, and it was dug in so deep they had to _cut_ it out instead! Ha, wow, what a crazy story that definitely didn’t happen.”

                You shut your eyes again. “I understand.”

                “And you still want it.”

                That is the end of it, you suppose. Perhaps it would have been better if you had never raised the topic at all. Nepeta might be willing—no, that would be too cruel. You will not ask that of her. And you will not ask it of Karkat again either. Maybe on your own—But you are almost certain that it will not be what you need. The helplessness, surrendering so completely to another, even as your visions goes grey. Even to the point of death. You breathe out, slowly. You will find a way to cope.

                And your eyes shoot open as a pair of small, warm hands wrap around your throat. He doesn’t apply any pressure, not really, but even that contact is enough to make you shiver. You tilt your head back from him until your unbroken horn scrapes against the floor. Karkat does not look happy. He is avoiding your eyes and his mouth turns down at the corners, but his hands are there and he isn’t taking them away.

                This is a silence you are almost afraid to break. It feels like saying the wrong thing, _anything—_ that you might ruin this moment and then it will be gone forever. You do force yourself to raise one uncertain hand and place it on Karkat’s thigh. His eyes flicker to your hand, back to your face, and after a moment he takes a deep breath and leans forward, letting more of his wait rest on your throat. Your eyes flutter shut.

                “And that honestly feels good?” he demands. “Honestly? If you’re, I don’t know, using me for some kind of ridiculous self-flagellating hoofbeastshit, there will be no words to describe my incandescent, pants-shitting fury—”

                You move your hand from his leg, but only to take him by his waist and ease him forward until he sits across your stomach, straddling you. His hands are still around your neck. You make a thoroughly embarrassing noise in the back of your throat as he leans into you just the smallest bit harder, and you flush. When you force yourself to open your eyes again, you think you can perhaps see the smallest hint of a smile on his face. “Come on, you absolute disaster, if you want something from me, you’re going to have to _ask_ for it.”

 _Oh_. You swallow hard, and that only makes you more aware of the unforgiving pressure of his hands. You can feel yourself break out into a sweat. It takes several tries before the words will come, and ultimately, all you manage is, “ _More._ ”


	4. Kankri/Psiioniic: Sensory Deprivation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/113042021181/relationship-kankri-psiioniic-rating-t-words)

                Kankri slips the caps over your horns and the world goes flat and lifeless. You take a slow breath and just that is enough to unbalance you. Kankri dives for your arm and you try to lean on him, you really do, but you can’t _feel_ him—You’re touching him, technically, but what the fuck does _that_ tell you, how do arms even work, and he does his best to take your weight, but you just end up taking him down with you, the two of you landing on the concupiscent platform in a barely-controlled fall.

                And, ha, Kankri’s so shocked that he’s even stopped talking. _Nice_. You start to type at him with your pan, but no, wait, without psionics you can’t send the transmission. Fuck. So you dig out your phone and do it by hand, like you’re an actual troll or something? _Weird_.

 

TA: hey  
TA: II thought II wa2 the one gettIIng fucked up here  
TA: your pan 2hut down or what?  
TA: kankrII  
TA: kaaaankrII  
TA: watch out or II’ll 2tart tellIIng 2torIIe2 from when you were a grub  
TA: II can do that  
TA: IIn fact II feel 2ome humorou2 recollectIIon2 comIIng on rIIght now  
TA: kankrII  
TA: the way you are IIgnorIIng my good faIIth attempt two communIIcate II2 hIIghly IIn2en2IItIIve and trIIIggerIIng  
**  
**

                It takes him a few moments to fumble out his phone, and you aren’t as fast with your fronds as you are with your pan, but you still manage to type out a pretty fucking perfect imitation of his own ridiculous speeches while he’s still trying to read through your backlog of messages. It doesn’t actually stop until he’s irritated enough that he snatches your phone away while you’re still trying to type. You try to stop him with your psi, and it derails you pretty good when you reach for your psionics and they’re just not _there_ why aren’t they there they’re _always there—_

                Ha, right. But hey, this is great, it feels like you’re missing all your limbs and you’re _so fucking off-balance_ and it’s awful and perfect, and you wonder if you could persuade Kankri to string you up by your hands too. And fuuuuuuuck yes, he’s snarling down at you as pitch as anything, and because you’re a contrary asshole, you stretch yourself out all vulnerable and bare your neck for him. Probably you can’t get him ashen without anyone else here, but here’s betting yourself that you can get him pale, pitch and flush for you, all at once. You’re going to make this happen.

                Right now, though? All caliginous, all the way. He dangles your phone over your face, dodging easily when you try to grab for it. Fuck, this is hard, you can’t tell how far away anything is, and even when you bump into something by mistake you can’t make your fingers _grip_ right. Kankri smiles down at you all pitch and vicious. “Why, is there something you need? If you have something you want from me… all you have to do is ask.”

                Ahahahaha, what an _asshole_ , what a perfect, perfect asshole. You’d pin him to the concupiscent platform, but every time you try to move you overbalance and you’re pretty sure you’ll go over the edge of the platform if you tried that. You’re unsheathing in your pants, this is the best idea you’ve ever had and you’re pissed as hell it took you this long to think of it. You can’t pin Kankri to the platform, but you find his chest with your hands (he’s both closer and farther away than you thought it was and it’s fucking you up so good), and from there it’s not too hard to get your hands to his waist and to drag him on top of you.

                Even once he’s straddling you, he rocks back against your bulge and it feels so good and it’s not enough, and fuck pride, all you want to do is ask for _more_ , but he’s still dangling your phone just out of reach and reminding you that if you need something, all you have to do is tell him. Fuck that guy, seriously. So you pull him down against your thorax and arch up against him. You can’t tell how far away he is even when you’re breathing each other’s air, even when he snarls against your mouth and bites your lip, not even when his hand rests at the base of your throat, just the slightest pressure and not even a hint of claws. Not even when he kisses you soft and careful and tells you to calm down, that he’s going to take care of you. When he puts on the blindfold, that’s when you start crying. It’s perfect.


	5. Mituna/Latula: Suspension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for helmsman play and mention of body horror
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/113144174781/relationships-mituna-latula-rating-m-warnings)

                Your babe is dumb as shit for letting you shut his psi off, so the absolute first thing you do is _tell_ him so. You can talk about it for a hella long time… so you do! As soon as the horn cuffs are on, you let him know what a big mistake it was. You tell him while you’re putting the cuffs on his wrist, while you’re bracing his hands up over his head, while you toss the rope over the scaffolding and hauling him up so his feet _just_ leave the ground. You’re on the bottom end of highblood, and he’s just a scrawny little lowblood, and without his psi? Even if his control is pretty fucked, yeah, that was his only possible defense, and now he doesn’t stand a _chance_.

                And hey, you’ve even got enough material to keep giving him shit while you cut the clothes off his body. You nick him with the knife once or twice, and you tell him hey, no biggie, he’s just a piece of equipment, yeah? You get some laughs out of that one. But on the other hand, you don’t wanna damage the goods _too_ bad, you’ll kill the resale value.

                Once you’ve got him all set up and ready to use, you sit back on your heels and just take a nice long look. Because _damn._ He looks real pretty all strung up nice for you. And haha, when you ask _him_ what he thinks, he tells you you’re a shitfucking bulgelick asshole and you can fuck off. Welp! He knows the rules, he knows what he’s asking for! You stand up get a niiiiiiiice long stretch, and slap him _hard_ across the face. And as soon as he recovers, you slap him again. Twos, yeah? You’re doing him a favor!

                “Awright, helm. Let’s put you through your paces. See if maybe you’re worth _something_.”

                He laughs. “Too ffucked ’n the pan, Not fucked enough everywhere _elthe_.”

                “Lucky you, nobody _cares_ about your pan. I mean hey, pans are for trolls, amiright? Helm, start the ship engines.”

                “Can’t,” he grins.

                You make like you’re gonna slap him again, and when he flinches, instead you pinch one of his grubscars, hard and vicious. He thrashes, but heh, hard to move when you’re all strung up like this. “ _Helm._ Start the engines.”

                You can see his horns spark, and you can’t _see_ how the psi cuffs divert everything down south, but you sure can imagine it. And it’s damn near impossible to miss the way his bulge unsheathes in a single smooth motion. “Much better,” you tell him. “I knew you couldn’t be _completely_ useless.”

                “F’you think my bulge lookth good there, you thould—”

                You don’t even let him finish. You hook his jaw with a few fingers, let the claws on your other hand dig into his side. “You know, we could do this the hard way. Wire your mouth shut, take out your eyes, take off your arms and legs. Much easier for _me!_ Pretty much leaves you as a battery, but hey, this was never about what _you_ wanted.”

                He shivers from head to toe, and his bulge lashes, dripping yellow material onto the floor. Well dang. You’ll have to figure out a way to try that sometime. While you’ve still got his jaw hooked, you take a quick look up at his wrists to make sure they’re doing fine and double check that the block is on the floor to slip under his feet if things go south. It’s all looking good, and you don’t think you need to worry about safewords yet, not with the way he’s still grinning.

                “Alright then, helm. Why don't we find out how long it takes to _break_ you?”


	6. Roxy/Horuss: Animal Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what, I declare this to be in canon with [Fill My Heart With Emptiness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3102713). It's going to be a little ways down the road for those two, but it's going to happen.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/113230100411/relationships-roxy-horuss-rating-m-e-words)

                You maybe get a teeny tiny _little_ bit distracted when Horuss takes off his shirt. Because… just. Damn. _Damn_. You seriously hit the jackpot here, true facts. And mmf, you have plenty of time to admire while he steps out of his pants and boots, folds the clothing neatly, and sets it aside. He’s still got his gloves on, so hopefully he’s not gonna, like, break any bones by accident. That would put a damper on the evening! It’s tricky as heck balancing out the whole skin-to-skin contact against not-crushing-Roxy-into-a-bloody-paste, but you make it work! And hey, it’s _real_ lucky you scored someone as on top of the whole self-control thing as Horuss is, because if this whole thing depended on you? Haha, yeahhh, nope.

                So you trust him to keep his legs carefully spread while you line up the harness on his hips, threading the hardware between his thighs, and basically getting _all_ up in his business. Before you tighten it up though, you check in. “We good?”

                His face is already flushed while he watches you, and you can see sweat break out on his cheeks. “I, I find this highly. Acceptable.”

                “ _Awesome._ ” Okay, lotsa bits to juggle here, but you’ve got this. _Oh_ , and last thing, you can’t forget that—You thread the horse dildo into place, and grin as it bobs up and down in front of you. Aw yiss. Then it’s just a matter of getting the dildo on _his_ end lined up with his nook, and last step, his sheath is just starting to dilate and you can see the tip of his bulge starting to make a break for it, so you slip the plug into place and tighten down the straps real quick. His legs jerk and he gasps, yeah, agh, that was maybe a bit much— but he doesn’t even knee you in the face! Awww, he’s so good to you.

                And you tell him what a good boy he is while you go snag the bit gag. You take your time getting that all set up, keep teasing at him until he’s blue out to the tips of his ears and stammering over every other word, and you hold out until he manages a desperate, “ _Please._ ”

                D’aww, you can’t say no to that face! You buckle the gag in place, then… yeah, why not, you let down his hair. Because seriously, _way too gorgeous,_ and no matter how often he lets you play with it, it’s still not often enough! He shivers when you just run your fingers through it, but when you get a nice handful and give a sharp tug he makes a choked little noise past the gag. Hee, that’s fun enough you could do it basically _forever_ , but there is yet more fun to be had! You guide him down to his knees, then tip him over onto his back and kneel between his legs.

                You take a breath just to look, because damn. You could stand to have him like this every day, you really could, his hair all spilling in a silky black puddle, already breathing fast, watching you with that adoring look that never fails to make you feel _hella_ appreciated. You take the horse dildo in your hands, waggle your eyebrows because preserving the mood is something that happens to other people, and give it a showy lick. Ahahaha, it’s not actually Horuss’s bulge, but you’d never guess that from the noise he just made! _Dang_. You deep throat the dildo as far as you can manage, let your eyes flutter shut, and give a nice theatrical moan around it that’s not even entirely fake. Yeah, this is working _real_ good for you.

                When you come up for air, Horuss is trying to beg around his gag. _Too cute._ He’s breathing hard and his hands are clenching and unclenching against the floor. You swing up to straddle his waist. “And who’s my pretty little musclebeast then?” He makes an incoherent noise. “That’s right, it’s you!!” You brace yourself against his chest with one hand while getting the dildo lined up with the other. Horuss is taking fast, shuddery breaths around the gag, and his eyes are fixed on the space between the two of you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from grinning if you tried. “You ready to go for a ride?”


	7. Karkat/Rose/Kankri: Masters, Doms, Slaves, & Subs (Power Dynamics)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/113323044851/relationships-karkat-rose-kankri-rating-t-words)

                Nominally, you are here only as an observer. You aren’t supposed to get involved in the actual goings-on. You wonder how long that will last. Of course, the role of middle leaf is not intended to be a sexual one. From what Kanaya has told you, an auspistice is a meddlesome meddler who meddles, and… that’s all anyone really understands. That certainly sounds like a sound romantic strategy. So while she’s said that it’s not strictly recommended to let your two leafs get intimate with each other, there aren’t strictly any _rules_ , and it’s, it’s up to your better judgment, and, and— You nodded solemnly along until she began to stumble over her words and flush green, and then you teased and kissed her mercilessly until she was smiling and laughing along with you.

                So perhaps it isn’t in accordance with troll societal standards, but well. You aren’t a troll, are you. And now here you are, sitting quietly in a chair while Kankri stares determinedly down at his hands and Karkat pretends he isn’t stealing glances at you out of the corner of his eye. When Kankri finally gives you a desperate look, you take mercy on them. “Is there a problem, boys?”

                They don’t give you a proper answer, only glare helplessly at each other. Karkat breaks the silence first. “Well if this asswipe is too much of a _coward_ to go through with—”

                “Oh, I’m a coward? And I suppose that I’m not looking at a troll who failed to escalate this encounter, although, of course, _I_ would never stoop so far as to use such inflammatory, crass language—”

                “ _Boys._ ” They go quiet at once, and turn to you. They both look so lost, and well. Your heart melts, just a little. “Would you like me to…?”

                “ _Yes,_ ” they say, almost in unison, and they barely even glare at each other, they’re so busy watching you.

                You slide onto the concupiscent platform between them, and take a moment to collect yourself, just resting a hand on each of their legs. You don’t have all that much personal experience in this particular field, but you rather think you have a head start on either of them. This is only an intimidating prospect, not an insurmountable obstacle.

                When you open your mouth, all that comes out is silence, and you clear your throat (you didn’t stumble over your words, why would anyone think _that?_ ) and say, “Karkat, please kiss Kankri.”

                “What, why should I have to—”

                “Karkat.”

                He scowls and glares and really, it is unfairly precious how adorable he is when he’s trying to be intimidating. He does kiss Kankri for you, leaning over your lap and bracing himself on your thigh. When you move a hand to Kankri’s back, he’s stiff as a board, and he shuts his eyes as Karkat moves closer, but he doesn’t shift away.

                “Kankri, if you’ll return the favor?”

                “I, I don’t see why you insist on placing these demands on me— on _us_ —in such a, a blunt and potentially triggering manner, and—”

                “Kankri.” You rub slow circles against his back. You can still feel how tense he is right through his sweater. “If either of you doesn’t want to be here, we can leave. That is an option that never stopped being available to you.”

                Kankri frowns and lurches forward over your lap all at once, mashing his lips against Karkat’s so abruptly that you’re pleasantly surprised to find that neither of them cut themselves on each other’s teeth.

                You smile to yourself, just a little. “Karkat, do you want to leave?” He glares off into the distance without saying a word, which is as good as an answer, really. “And Kankri, should I take that to mean you want to stay?”

                “Such an unfounded assumption about my feelings on the matter is, is _highly_ insensitive, and you would do well to rethink—”

                This time Karkat is the one who cuts him off, with a hand across his mouth. He stares intently up into your eyes, and well, you can’t help letting that smile spread across your face just a touch further. “Stop antagonizing the person who’s trying to make this whole mess _work_ , nookmuch,” he tells Kankri.

                Kankri delicately removes Karkat’s hand from his mouth, holding it like it’s some particularly repulsive dead rodent, and you have to suppress a laugh. “Well then, I do hope you’re planning to share with me how she hopes to salvage this… _experience_.”

                You catch each of their hands, and drop a pair of quick kisses to their fingertips. “Oh, I think I can make this work,” you murmur. “And it will be wonderfully simple. All you need to do is listen closely to me… and do _exactly_ as I say.” It sounds just as suggestive as it did in your head, and it takes them a moment to catch on, but when the two of them flush bright red in unison, you don’t even try to hold back your smile.


	8. Oral Fixation: Porrim/Kurloz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mouth stitches are pretty central to this story. I'm pretty sure that's covered by body horror, but if mouth things or playing with stitches is bad for you, you might want to go ahead and skip this one.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/113755810161/relationships-porrim-kurloz-rating-soft-m)

                It bothers you, the way Kurloz watches you. Of course, you can’t let him know that. That would be _losing_. But it’s difficult to ignore, and it does rather get to you. There’s something about that flat look and the way he never looks away, always silent—never speaking, of course, but never signing to you either. And without even any expression on his face but cool, infuriating detachment.

                You suppose you should not be surprised to find yourself straddling his lap, a hand tangled in his hair to yank his head back so he’ll _look_ at you. That lack of expression is gone now. His teeth are bared—as much as his stitches will allow—and you pull his hair even harder just to see him glare. He snarls at you as well as he is able, air hissing past his lips, and you press closer so he can’t sign a single thing, even if he wants to.

                He doesn’t try to sign. His hands go straight to _your_ hair, yanking you down against him, and when your lips press against his stitches it feels like victory. It’s a different sort of kissing from anything you’re used to. The familiarity of smooth lips against yours is broken by the pinpricks of sensation where his threads brush against your mouth, and he can’t even open his mouth wide enough for you to feel his fangs at all.

                He hisses in frustration as he tries to open his mouth further, and the stitches tug at his lips. And you break away to laugh. What did he think he was getting himself into if he didn’t realize how his stitches would complicate things? He yanks at your hair, _hard_ , and bares his teeth at you… if you can even call it that, really. You bend down to kiss him again, and honestly, you can’t get enough of the way his stitches feel, rough, almost sharp against your lips, a constant tactile reminder that this is new and different, that it’s a _challenge_. And it doesn’t hurt that right now, they remind you that you’re doing a better job of dealing with the challenge than _he_ is.

                You explore them as thoroughly as you can—with your mouth. Using eyes and hands at a time like this would just be _such_ a waste. You run your tongue along his stitches, pushing as you go just to be sure it pulls at him, you press your tongue between two stitches until he hisses with pain, and you are having the time of your _life_. When you feel his bulge shift against your ass, you grind back against him as you tongue at a stitch, and he gasps, then jerks away, raising a hand to feel at his mouth.

                You tug his hand down and take a look yourself. Nothing too terrible, but there is a single drop of blood beading at the base of one of his stitches. You lick it off. Mm, that’s nice. You don’t have nearly enough opportunities to taste blood at this end of the spectrum. You sit back—grinding on his bulge again as you go, of course—and lick your lips. You put a hand on his cheek and run your thumb across his stitches. “I’m going to go ahead and say that my bulge is out of the question… But I think we’re going to see just how well you handle my nook.”


	9. Nepeta/Kankri: Teasing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/117309380956/relationships-nepeta-kankri-rating-t-words-590)

                “I thought you were purrfectly happy with this,” you say, and Kankri glares at you.

                “I don’t appreciate your attempt to determine what is reasonable in, in terms of _my_ emotional response to this situation, or indeed _any_ situation, and additionally, structuring your already unreasonable statement to incorporate a cat pun speaks worlds about your self-serving outlook and lack of consideration for my own feelings on the matter. I apologize in advance if you are unused to thinking of these issues in any sort of sophisticated way, or if my low opinion of your education in such matters triggers you, but—”

                “Beclaws,” you interrupt. He _snarls_ at you, and you don’t even try to stop yourself from grinning. “Appurrciate. _Incorpurrate_.”

                Kankri doesn’t have any reply to that at all, and you count that as a win. And he is _furious_. Hee, fur-ious. It’s much, much better than watching him pull himself to pieces worrying and pretending like nothing’s wrong. He’s allowed to be worried! You’re just as new to this as he is, just as nervous, and it is so _irritating_ to see him put up these silly, weak defenses and get upset when people see through them. Angry is better. And angry is easy! He’s so _bad_ at being teased, and if he’d just stop reacting you’d probably go easier on him, but you’re glad that he’ll blow up at you like this, and just let it out.

                He’s talking again, so you make a point of ignoring him. This is a whole lot of nothing, blah, he could probably get his point across in one sentence if he tried. You give him all the attention he deserves, which means you start grooming your hair, just the way mom taught you. And hee, Kankri hates being ignored more than anything, he hates it sooooo much. When he finally makes a snippy remark on how rude it is that _some_ people won’t even listen when someone else is graciously trying to educate him, you sit back and put a hand on your thorax.

                “I am _extremely offended.”_ Kankri tries to say something but you cut him right off! “I would have thought that someone who says they’re sensitive to the needs of others would be capurrble of actually showing it? Or did you just want to talk about it? Beclaws right now you are trying to control my behavior, just like you did befur—” He cuts you off. With his mouth. And with a _lot_ of teeth. You do your best to kiss him back, but it’s awfully difficult when you’re laughing this hard!

                His teeth are blunt, but he definitely makes up for it with effort. He does his best to pin you to the ground too, and yesss, you like him best like this, _acting_ instead of talking efurrything to death, and for a minute, you let him think that he might win the wrestling match. You struggle super hard, right, you’re definitely going all out here. And once you can feel his stupid, smug little smile against your mouth, you roll him onto his back. Easy as everything, and you have to laugh at how offended he looks. You pin both of his wrists, beclaws he has _no_ idea how to fight, he really doesn’t, and straddle his thorax and take a nice long look at him. He's flushed bright red and he's _so_ angry and you can still taste blood in your mouth and all you want is _more_.

                “Purrfectly happy yet?” You grind back against his bulge. “Or should I keep going?”


	10. Tavros/Sollux: Held Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/117311922646/relationships-tavros-sollux-rating-soft-e)

                It’s easy to think about Sollux being strong. It’s, uh, really easy, actually. You’re reminded, pretty much every night, that he can throw starships around the galaxy with his pan. And that’s not something that you can really ever hope to match, realistically speaking, as just a troll. But it turns out that if you shut his psionics off, he’s actually, um. Fragile? Or maybe he isn’t fragile, maybe you’re just pretty large, for a troll, or at least compared to him. However it happened, you can accurately say there is a significant size difference, between you and him. And since you like it, and he also likes it, everybody involved seems to be happy with the situation, and he just surprised you with psionic limiters for your wriggling day.

                It might be a little mean that you took a little time putting them on, to tease him, and also to enjoy the view. In your defense, it was a really nice view. It doesn’t do much outside of your pan, if something blocks you from talking to animals. But it’s different for Sollux and his psionics. He almost loses his balance when you put a limiter on his second horn, and he has to hold on to you while you do the others. And you pity him, in a lot of ways, that aren’t limited to this situation, or scenario. But he’s _really_ irresistible when he’s hanging onto your shoulders, trying his best to stay upright while you tease his little horns, and not quite managing it.

                You don’t hold out long after that, because, um, he’s really, _really_ easy to pity like this, and you want to get as close to him as you possibly can, and also you would like there to be less clothing in the way, please. You end up not even making it to the concupiscent platform, he drags you right down onto the floor, and you, uh. Hold him there. It’s really hard to think about a situation where he isn’t strong, but right now, he isn’t, he can’t pick you up with his pan and put you where he wants. He can’t move you at all, actually. He tries, but it doesn’t work much. Or, at all.

                You just trap his hands in yours, and hold them down against the floor, and just. Move. He pushes up against you, and it basically doesn’t move you at all, and he keeps saying things like, “ _Fuck_ , TV,” which, given the circumstances, you can probably interpret as being a positive thing. And if he’s happy, then happy is definitely a word you could also use, to describe yourself. You don’t even get his pants off, or your pants, but you’ve got one of your legs between his, and he presses a thigh up against your bulge and fights to move from under you, and you can feel his bulge shifting against you every time he arches. You finish first, but you hold out, leaning down against him, rubbing your leg up against his bulge. And when you bend down and bite the side of his neck, he arches up against you and shakes while he comes.


	11. Aradia/Equius: Dirty Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/117314594621/relationship-aradia-equius-rating-e-words-590%22)

          It’s always a thrill to be reminded of how strong Equius is—and how easily you can overpower him. And honestly, you aren’t even sure that can be credited entirely to your psionics. It’s possible he’d be able to overcome them through pure physical strength. But he doesn’t even _try_ and that’s power that isn’t yours in and of itself, this is power that’s been _given_ to you, and that’s a thrill all on its own.

          And he doesn’t take that power back, no matter how you push at his limits. You can have him up against an open window, where anyone who happened to walk by might see him, you can tease at him under his clothes in public, you can have him spill his material on the ground without the dignity of a pail, and he’ll take it all and ask for more. And you can pin him up against a wall and tell him all the ways he lets you wreck him and all the ways you plan to _keep_ wrecking him in the future.

          You hold his bulge between two fingertips, not letting him fill himself, not letting him get any of the friction he needs, not even holding him against the wall, really. You pinned his wrists up next to his head, but you aren’t using your powers anymore, he’s keeping them there on his own, just because he knows you want him to, and you are making sure he _knows_ you know.

          It’s so easy to tell him every filthy thing you’ve ever thought of doing to him, and no matter what you say, he moans, and shifts his hips and begs you for more. You tell him that you could strip him down in public, take him in front of the whole world just to let them know he’s yours, and all he does is agree. How far could you go? Could you order him carry around a sex toy all day, no matter how hard it was, no matter how desperate he was, would he do that for you? Of course he would. You tell him that you were thinking of ordering a nookworm, seeing how long he could last without touching himself, even with the secretions making every second that much more intense. And you know how long he’d last, don’t you. He’d last as long as you ordered him to.

          He can barely put the words together when he begs you to please touch his nook, and you let his bulge slip back to fill himself, then press it up into him with your own hand. He writhes, but his wrists don’t leave the spots where you placed them on the wall. You pull his bulge back out with two fingers, then let it press up into him over and over, until his head is thrown back against the wall and genetic material is rolling down his thighs. And then, you ask him if he’s going to come without permission. Of course not, he says. May he come, he says. You don’t give him an answer, but you slip a finger into him alongside his bulge. He sobs and begs and begs, and you can feel his legs shaking. And you still don’t give him an answer. He doesn’t come. He’s so good to you. Finally you tell him to come, and he doesn’t even last half a breath before he shakes himself apart for you, burying his face in your hair and gasping for breath as he spills onto the floor.


	12. Dave/Roxy: Authority Figures (Mommy Kink)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/118333513221/relationship-roxy-lalonde-dave-strider-words)

                She’s just sitting there and watching. It’s a quiet moment, which is your brain’s cue to drop all control, give over full speaking control to your mouth and your lack of better judgment, god only knows where this stream of consciousness is going to take you because oh look it isn’t a stream it’s actually white water rapids and if you drown that’s actually probably the best case scenario—

                But as soon as you open your mouth to say something dumb and unfiltered, Roxy puts a finger over your lips. You shut your eyes with the rush of embarrassment and relief.

                “Hey, you,” she says.

                Hey you, hey me, me Dave, you Roxy, and oh man yes you’re definitely Tarzan, that’s why you’re sitting here without a shirt (or pants), trying and failing to be articulate with someone you desperately want to impress. You’d high five your brain, except you’re pretty sure that fucker’s going to go all Ides of March on your ass as soon as you turn your back. Et tu, frontal lobe? But you’re getting hella distracted, Roxy’s making a silly face and you’re too much of a distracted dipshit to even know how long that’s been going on.

                “Anybody home?”

                Aw yes, here it is, time to open your mouth and let words happen, that’s pretty much your only notable life skill, here we go, time for you to shine. But your throat is so tight you can barely breathe, never mind talking, and you can’t even meet her eyes, and just what kind of chump are you. Instead, all you do is slowly faceplant in her shoulder.

                You’re the chump, and Roxy’s the champ, because she just rolls with it like a boss, gets her arms up around your shoulders and holds you close, doesn’t say or do much, and more importantly, doesn’t expect _you_ to say or do much. She leans her cheek up against your head, and you eventually get your act together enough to get an arm around her waist. And yeah, wow, you’re pitching camp here, never moving again, _never_ showing your face in public again, Roxy’s shoulder is your new forever home and you’ll just go ahead and settle in to wait for the end of the world.

                Except not. You forgot to lay in supplies for the winter, or your stupid metaphor failed in some other equally stupid way, and eventually you try to scrape together the last shreds of your dignity and sit back up. Roxy doesn’t let you go that easy, though, she spins you around and tugs you right back to lean up against her chest. Oh hey, boobs against your back. That would be awesome if you were in any state of mind to appreciate it.

                Roxy spreads a possessive hand across your chest. “Whoa there. Slow down, bud! It’s all good, no need to stress yourself out.”

                Ugh, except yes kind of not really. You don’t even know. You might be open to some spirited debate on the topic of whether or not everything is good. But you’re _pretty fucking sure_ all this stress is deserved and necessary and if anyone tries to get you to stop stressing out, you’ll… something. Ha. Because you sure haven’t proven yourself to be comically useless in basically every sense ever tonight or anything, nope. Ahaha.

                “Dave,” she says. “Dave, Dave, _Dave_.” She’s nuzzling the top of your head. “Dave, you know I’ve got you, right? Why don’t you tell me who’s got you, just so I can be sure we’re on the same page.”

                “Roxy—” you start, and then cut yourself off. You can feel your face go red-hot. And Roxy just laughs, this humming little laugh pressed right up against your hair, and you can feel the smile on her mouth and her arms are still around you so tight and secure—

                “Go on.”

                “M—mommy,” you finally force out, and your voice cracks like you’re still going through puberty, _fuck_ , but either Roxy doesn’t notice or she acts like she doesn’t notice, blessings be on her and her family unto the seventh generation, and you hope she’s not expecting you to know what to do now, because haha _wow_ she’ll be waiting a long time if you have to figure out how this shit works.

                But she just laughs and covers you in kisses, everywhere she can reach, oh god she must be getting lipstick all over your hair and ears and yeah, you can’t bring yourself to care, you’re too busy shutting your eyes and letting yourself feel how good it is to be _held_.

                Finally she lets go enough for you to turn half around—which isn’t far, but it’s enough to get your mouth in kissing range, fuck yes, you think you’re sufficiently braced to be kissed places that aren’t the back of your head, let’s do this. She’s bending down, and here it is, you’re the swooning heroine ready to be romanced, but she pauses just a few inches away. Her hands are on your face and her thumb is brushing the corner of your mouth, and your heart is pounding so hard you think you’re about to die.

                She grins, and your fuckery alarm goes off. “Hey Dave, I’m not quite sure what you want here! You should probably ask me, or I’ll just be waaaaay too shy to try anything at all.”

                Timid. Right. That’s definitely how you’d describe her, okay. You swallow hard, steel what’s left of your nerves and try, “Will you kiss me?”

                Oh. Oh _fuck_ , no response, and she looks almost… _disappointed_ , and no no no, that’s the worst thing and your heart is about to fall out of the bottom of your stomach, you can’t— Stumbling over the words even worse than before, you manage, “Will you kiss me, please?”

                She smiles a tiny bit there, but you’re still not getting it right, you don’t know what you’re doing wrong, but, but it’s okay, it’s okay, she’s not angry. She laughs a little and says, “So how am I supposed to know who you’re talking to?”

                “Will, will you please kiss me, mommy?”

                That’s it, you figured it out, you did it _right_ , and she grins from ear to ear for a moment before she bends down to press her lips against yours. She breaks apart almost right away, but that’s just to whisper, “You did so _good_ , what a good boy—” before diving back into the kiss. And there’s no way that should be as hot as it is, no reason that should be anything but silly, but it goes straight to your dick and you make an embarrassing noise against her mouth, and you would do anything, fucking _anything_ to have her say it to you again—

                The angle sucks, and the two of you don’t last long before she tips you onto your back on the mattress, and stretches out next to you. She’s telling you that you’re so good, the best, and it doesn’t even matter that you’ve done jack squat to deserve this, you’ll take it, and then she reaches down for your boxers and you… fuck up. Again. It’s _cool_ , it’s okay, everything is fine, and maybe if you keep telling yourself that you’ll eventually believe it. Roxy doesn’t miss the way you tense up and start to jerk away when she reaches under your waistband. She pulls back, and _shit_ , you ruined it, just like you ruin everything good that happens to you, you didn’t want to screw this up too.

                You’re doing your best to apologize, to get things back on track, because _fuck_ , just because you’re having trouble keeping up doesn’t mean that you don’t want this to happen, you just, you’ll manage, you can roll with it, you promise—She ignores you. She just lays down right next to you, captures one of your hands in hers, and drapes an arm over your chest. You manage to cut off your own incoherent babble, but yep, that’s about the best you can do. You should be trying to fix this or, or. Something. But nope. Time to just sit here like a useless moron.

                “Dave.”

                You can’t look at her. You mean hey, you can’t let go of her hand either, it’s death grip city all up in this joint, but eye contact sure isn’t a thing that’s happening. You want your glasses.

                “Daaaaaave. You know this is fine, right?”

                Haha, fine? What’s fine? Dave is busy waiting for his downgrade from a knight of time to a waste of time (and space), which sure is stretching the definition of ‘fine,’ but hey, it was meant to be and who are you to argue with destiny.

                “If you’re not feeling something you’re allowed to say no, you know that right? Dave?” You still can’t get yourself to answer her. “If I decided to do something I knew was going to hurt you, I don’t think I’d deserve to call myself your mommy anymore. Do you?”

                Something tense and ugly begins to uncoil itself in your gut. “No,” you manage.

                “Oh _good_ ,” she breathes, and you can feel her relax against you too. She sighs. “I think that you and I need to max out communication levels, yo. Looks like our telepathic powers are super slacking off on the job, so we’d better talk this shit out.” She pauses, and from the corner of your eye you can just see the way she's grinning. “Looks like somebody’s gonna have to learn to ask for _every single thing_ he wants!”

                _Oh_. You. “I think I can do that.” You shut your eyes and take a deep breath and pretend like there isn't a hint of a smile spreading across your face. “Mommy.”


	13. John/Jake: Virginity/Celibacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/118761488991/relationships-john-egbert-jake-english-rating)

                Everything is just so easy with John. And it’s not just easy, it’s relaxing and _fun_ and just about the opposite of everything you’ve come to expect from your life. Of course, once the two of you had room to breathe, the first order of business is to catch up on some movies! You certainly can appreciate a gentleman with such excellent taste in cinema. John leads the charge with Con Air, saying that things can’t go further until you’ve seen the best film ever made. You do agree that it’s a masterpiece of modern cinema, and you perhaps had to blot away a tear or two as the upstanding Cameron Poe reunites with his family, but you can’t concede victory until you’ve given John a taste of your own movie library!

                You follow up with Tomb Raider, he counters with Ghost Dad, you counter his counter with Ghost _Rider_ , and before you know it, it feels like you’ve been watching movies together for the better part of a lifetime. It has been the better part of a day, at least, and you’re determined the stand firm! But the last thing you remember is waxing eloquent on the divine magnificence of Diva Pavalaguna, and whoops, the next thing you know you’re waking up to a looping title screen. John mustn’t have outlasted you by much, because he’s curled up in the pillows and blankets and other sundry debris right next to your side. You head out to stock up on supplies, and when you come back bearing food, John’s awake and loading up another movie. You _like_ the way he thinks.

                And you also like the way he understands that a chap might need a bit of solitude sometimes. There are more people out there than you’ve ever seen in your life (melodramatic, but true), and it’s easier to get your bearings and prepare to get on with things when it’s just you and John enjoying yourselves in this nice cozy room. It’s a rush of relief to know he wants to stay in here with you, just for a little while longer.

                It’s a little hard to tell where things go odd. You and John stopped trying to prove ‘best’ movie five or six films into the experience, and you’ve just been swapping movies left and right and talking over all of them at the top of your lungs and _plenty_ of enthusiasm. And perhaps you haven’t been as tidy as you might and there are discs all over the floor instead of in their cases, and perhaps they weren’t labeled too well in the first place. And perhaps, John says, maybe Dave’s been showing Karkat human movies and they got mixed in with yours? You’ve ah. Certainly never owned a movie called ‘From Justin To Kelly.’

                But it’s quite an experience! You have to commend Dave’s taste in movies. You follow that up with Glitter (so tragic and moving, you can’t help tearing up a little), and then it’s on to Showgirls! John’s the first to twig onto the fact that something’s a bit… different about this one. Though. Um. You certainly catch on once Nomi starts dancing around without her top on.

                Honestly, you’re not quite sure what to do! And you rather think John’s in a similar boat. The two of you sit in mutual embarrassment for a few minutes, until the scope of the plot begins to catch you up! It truly is a sweeping story, of a young lady struggling to make it in the world, and you’re right there cheering her as she auditions for the chorus line and furious on her behalf when the director humiliates her. It isn’t long before John’s back on an even keel too, and the two of you talk back and forth on poor Nomi’s struggles.

                And really, there’s a lot for you to relate to there. You try to downplay it, this isn’t the time for maudlin self-pity, but you really can identify with her struggles with love, trying to make something out of herself with everyone doing their best to keep her down. Which is overplaying the comparison a bit, you think! Nobody was keeping you down, you just weren’t… keeping up. But the more you watch the more emotional you’re getting, and damn, you don’t quite manage to keep a lid on things, and it isn’t long before John notices and asks what’s wrong.

                You sigh heavily. “Oh just thinking that I’ve made a nice mess of things, haven’t I? Just look at Nomi pushing on through and making something of herself. All I ever did was curl up and feel sorry for myself. Between that business with Dirk and then the rest with Jane, I even managed to drag most of my friends down with me.”

                John, bless him, claps you on your shoulder and retorts, “That’s not what I’ve heard about you at all! As far as I can tell, romance just screws _everything_ up, that’s not your fault.”

                “Really?”

                He laughs. “Remind me to tell you what down with Davesprite and Jade sometime. And then neither of them even managed to tell me it was over until weeks after they broke up, so they both spent ages moping alone because they didn’t want to steal me from each other! No realizing that oh wait, John is both of your friend _and_ my friend, maybe we can get some emotional support out of that friendship deal, nope, time to both go be miserable and lonely, that’s clearly the best solution.”

                On the screen, Nomi is, ah. Doing a rather _intimate_ one-on-one dance. “I don’t know. I have this sinking feeling that maybe I’m just not cut out for romance. I’m sure you’ve heard about how badly I botched everything.”

                “Well, it seems like Dirk can be a bit… intense.” You can’t help chuckling at that. “Maybe there were better ways to deal with things, but I think you did well for being alone in the game for wow, months? I think probably _any_ dating conditions in the future are better than what was happening there.”

                “Perhaps.” You sigh again. “Once bitten, twice shy, I suppose. But I’ve no clue how to go about it. How do I even get started with even, I don’t know, kissing or any of the rest? There’s no proper manual on how to go about these things and I don’t know who I’d even figure it all out with.”

                The two of you watch the movie in silence for a few breaths, and then the same idea occurs to you both at once.

                “You and I—”

                “Maybe we could—”

                You both stop and laugh. You’re _giddy_ , you’re absolutely fucking giddy, and John was thinking of the _same thing_ and something tense and unhappy is starting to unwind from around your ribcage. You’ve just been spending lots of time thinking about how nice everything is in here with him, haven’t you? No stress, no worry that he’s expecting something out of you and you’re too slow to see it, no worry that you’re making him as unhappy as you’ve made all your other friends. This could _work._

                And then you pause. You’re still grinning, but you pause. “Where would you like to start?”

                John blushes. “I don’t know. I’ve never dated anyone at all! I’ve been too busy watching all my friends date each other, I guess.”

                “Um.”

                “So.”

                You venture, “Kissing?”

                As it happens, there’s a lovely example kiss on the television screen just as you lean in towards each other, and you both make a _terrible_ mistake and try to imitate it. You would describe the resulting experience as wet. And messy. You have to wipe your mouth as you pull back.

                But John suggests, “Another try?” and you feel a rush of relief.

                “Closed mouths?” You’d been worried that you’d managed to wreck your second chance right away, but it’s okay, it’s still okay.

                This goes much better. And it goes better than it ever did with Dirk, now that you’re not pulling yourself to pieces worrying over what you could be doing better, what he wants you to be doing, what you’re _supposed_ to be doing. You and John manage to bump noses _and_ glasses _and_ teeth, but you do make it work, in the end. And then it’s just a matter of focusing on what feels good. It’s… nice. You can see for a change why kissing is supposed to be a relaxing experience, instead of awkwardly petering off into nothing with you wound tight as a spring, still without a bloody clue as to what Dirk _wants._

                But this isn’t Dirk, this is John. And as you find out (by accident!), John likes it when you nip at his lips. He laughs against your mouth and returns the favor, and _oh_ , yes, you can see why he enjoyed that—It’s almost a game, biting at each other like this but there’s the pinch of his teeth and the softness of his lips, and his hand comes around the back of your neck to steady you, and you could go on forever like this, you really could.

                When your tongue slips into his mouth, it’s largely by accident. You put it right back where it belongs in your mouth, but before you can pull back to apologize, John’s tongue is right there and um. Oh. _Well_. Perhaps no apologies are needed after all. It’s a fantastic push and pull, mouths and hands both, it seems silly to keep your hands dangling awkwardly at your sides, and John’s feel so perfect against you that you want to do the same for him. Your hands settle on his waist, and he makes a little noise and leans in to you further, which is a development you are _not_ going to argue with in the slightest.

                But when his hands drop to your thigh to brace himself, you become aware of, ah. A _situation_ in your trousers. You do break the kiss then to apologize, because you’re afraid you’re awfully out of line, this was supposed to be about kissing, and you’ve gotten rather carried away. But John just laughs and tells you not to worry, it’s mutual.

                It takes you a moment to process, but then you realize, and oh. _Oh_. Your cheeks are burning as you steal a look at his pants, and you almost start to reach out before you catch yourself. “I. Um.” Deep breaths, old chum. “May I?”

                John bites his lower lip and nods, and you can just barely hear the sharp intake of his breath when you reach out to cup him through the fabric. You’re gentle as you can be, lord knows you don’t want to make a mistake _now_ , and you’re so far out of your depth you wouldn’t have a clue as to the proper way forward. But you can feel John reacting to every touch, and well, it’s more than a little flattering to know you’re having this kind of effect on a chap!

                Eventually, he taps you on the leg and asks, “May I too?”

                Your cheeks feel positively incandescent and you can’t meet his eyes. But you still can’t help the smile spreading across your face as you say, “Yes.”


	14. Karkat/Dolorosa: Ageplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the age difference, I guess, also note that this is a palerom story and much less sexual than most of the other chapters in this collection.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/119819627301/relationships-karkat-dolorosa-rating-g-maybe-t)

                So you’re dead. That’s… a thing. That’s the only real explanation for taking a stab to the thorax and waking up back in your hive without a wound on you, no matter how many times you check. Unless you dreamed the whole thing. But no, you didn’t dream it, you don’t just dream a whole sweep and a half like that, and there’s the scar from Jack stabbing you, okay, you’re not going crazy. But how are you _here_ , your hive shouldn’t be here, _you_ shouldn’t be here, this whole place was destroyed so long ago you have a hard time even remembering it. And there’s your dad’s nest right beside the door and yeah, no, _fuck the hell no_ , you’re getting out of here before you can see whether he’s here or not, you officially cannot deal with this.

                It’s easier to breathe once you’re outside. The moons and the sky are still right where you left them, and you can see your neighbors’ hives here and there, but they’re all empty and you have to wonder if you’re the only person in this universe. It’s almost reassuring when you make it a few hills down the road and see desert off in the distance, yes, okay, this is some weird afterlife thing, you aren’t just going crazy. You make a beeline straight for the desert, because the staying in your neighborhood makes it harder and harder it is to pretend that everything is fine, and if you’re stuck there for much longer having to see the way that everything is _wrong_ , you’re going to scream.

                And oh, oh fuck yes, you’ve barely stepped over the weird melded border between your neighborhood and the desert when you see a pair of familiar horns poking up over a sand dune. You’re almost too on edge to function, but she’s here, she’s okay, you can handle this, you _can_ — You shout, “Kanaya!” and fight the urge to break into a run.

                And then you apply the brakes to this disaster train, because shit shit shit that’s _not_ Kanaya, the other troll stands up and she’s too tall, and glowing bright white and it was never this frightening when Kanaya did it and fuck you need to _run_ , but she’s swooping down on you and she’s too fast, and you aren’t going to make it—

                She catches you up in her arms, and you’re _pinned_ , you’re panicking, and fuck your horns for being the most useless appendages in the history of all trollkind, all you can do is kick and thrash and it’s so fucking stupid, you just died and now you’re going to die again, this is so goddamn appropriate for your miserable excuse of a life. But there’s no strife specibus, no claws, no fangs, nothing, she’s just holding you up against her, running her fingers through your hair, and saying things you can’t make out because your pump biscuit is beating way too loud for you to hear a single word.

                Finally, fucking _finally,_ she puts you down. She doesn’t let go, but you have your feet on solid ground (for questionable values of solid, why do deserts even exist), and. It helps. You’re still breathing way too fast, but you try to stand tall, look intimidating as you can (it’s useless, you’re so short you might as well have never molted, and she’s _an adult)._ She pets your head one last time, and you can’t help baring your teeth as she tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. You’re ready to fight, you’re ready, you’re going to lose, but you’re going to go down fighting. But then she takes a step back.

                She folds her hands delicately, inclines her head, and says, “My apologies, you aren’t Kankri.”

                You swallow hard. “So I guess you aren’t Kanaya.” Ha. Haha. Polite. We’re all so polite, nobody panicking in these parts, nope.

                “Kanaya… Maryam?” You just give her a flat glare, but fuck it, it’s not like you ever were able to act like as much of a stone-cold hardass as you wished, so it’s not that that surprising when she smiles instead of being intimidating and says, “Porrim Maryam. May I have the pleasure of knowing which Vantas I’m speaking to?”

                You. _Oh_. How the hell does she—? You don’t know, you don’t fucking know, and you’re too lost and confused to go along with any mindgames she might be trying to play. You just cross your arms and say, “Karkat.”

                If she does any nefarious plans for you, screw it, you give up, you lose, you’re too exhausted to take her at anything but face value. And she is unfailingly gentle and calm (what the fuck, it’s freaking you out), asking you how you got here, where you’ve been, this that and the other thing. You don’t even realize just how much information she’s getting out of you until you find yourself describing what it was like to wake up your hive, to see everything there like it was before it got destroyed, not knowing whether or not your dad might be about to walk in the door—Your voice breaks like a wiggler’s, and you cut yourself off while your cheeks flush hot with humiliation.

                You’re lost, totally fucking adrift, how the hell do you even begin to recover from something like that? But Porrim chirrs in the back of her throat and sweeps you up into her arms again, and you’re just. So _tired_. It’s too easy to just let yourself sit there frozen in her arms, bury your face in the coolness of her shoulder and pretend that’s just where your face happened to land. You’re not hiding. Or anything. You’re not.

                And since you’re just sitting there casually cuddled up with an adult (like normal people totally do) (and _not hiding_ ), it’s too easy to focus on the feeling of her fingers running through your hair, and her voice whispering ‘shooooosh, shoosh,’ as she holds you up against her.

                You squeeze your eyes tight shut, because you’re not going to cry, not like this, you _can’t_. When her hand drops to your cheek, and her thumb strokes back and forth over your cheekbone and she whispers, ‘shhh, you’re fine,’ in your ear. It’s. Too much. You break, clinging tight around her waist, letting the words spill out of you in an ugly flood, and if she was smart she’d cut and run now, you know you’re too much of a disaster to wish on anybody, you _know_. But she stays and she listens and she soothes it all out of you, calm and patient as you pile up sweeps of baggage, she just lets it all pour out of you until you’re numb and empty, and her hands don’t leave you from the moment you start talking to the moment you finally fall into exhausted, dreamless sleep.


	15. Kanaya/Mindfang: Piercings/Needleplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for dubcon/noncon/mind control in this chapter, because Mindfang. It doesn't go too far in a sexual sense, but please be careful.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/119827812126/relationships-kanaya-mindfang-rating-m-warnings%22)

                She looks like Vriska, but you never would have confused them. She has the same horns, the same hair, the same eyes, but she walks with the kind of confidence Vriska only pretended to have. What drew you to Vriska was that undercurrent of uncertainty, knowing that she _wanted_ you to believe the façade was the reality, being able to recognize every weak point that she tried so hard to hide. When that self-possession and confidence are real instead of an act… she’s terrifying.

                You drop your eyes, watch the floor instead of her. You don’t want to provoke her, you don’t know what she might do to you if you make a wrong step. She circles you like an predator toying with their prey, and you desperately want to run. She stops in front of you, and you stare down at her boots. Perhaps her dreambubble will pass on soon, _please_ let her dreambubble pass on. Leave, leave, leave you silently beg, there’s nothing here for you, nothing to interest you, I’m nothing, you can go—

                She reaches for your chin, and you do your best not to resist as she raises your head until you meet her eyes. You’re frozen and you don’t know what to do, but, but it would have been worse to fight her, wouldn’t it?

                Her mouth quirks up at the corner. “Not even a smile?”

                You force yourself into it, spread your lips, wider, let them curve up, _god_ you hope this doesn’t look like a threat display—

                But she smiles right back at you and says, “There’s a good girl, then.”

                Your knees almost shake with the rush of relief. She goes back to circling, and you could drop your eyes again, but instead you track her, left to right, every time she passes in front of you. You don’t want to stop watching her, it’s hard to look away.

                It’s only a few moments before she breaks the silence again with, “You remind me of someone I used to know.”

                It would be safer to stay quiet, to be a statue, to be boring, you shouldn’t entertain her, but your lips part and you say, “Oh?”

                She stops in front of you again, bends to peer into your eyes. “I met her a long, long time ago.” She sighs. “She was so very pretty. You have her smile, you know.”

                You smile wider for her, floating high on her approval. She likes it when you smile.

                She puts a hand out to your cheek, and it’s easier than you thought to not flinch at the touch. “That’s right, just like that.” She sighs again, and she looks so sad, and you wish you could help her.

                “Do you miss her?”

                “Oh yes, more than you could know.” She shakes herself and smiles down at you, and ah, that’s good, _you_ made her smile. “Less, I think, when I’m with you.”

                You beam. Her hand slides down to rest on the side of your neck, and you lean into the contact. She laughs, low and soft, and says, “Oh, you are a lovely little thing. Whoever wins you over will be a lucky troll indeed.”

                You feel like you’re barely tethered to the ground, you could just sink into all of her admiration, her praise, and never touch earth again. Before you can dare think twice and stop yourself you blurt, “I could be _yours_.”

                Too presumptuous, too daring, you shouldn’t have—But she brings her other hand up to your neck, she’s tilting your head up for her and yes, _yes_ , you did it right, you did it right for her. Her mouth is so soft against yours and when you part your lips for her, you can feel the breath of her laughter against your skin.

                You could kiss her for hours, forever, as long as she wants you, and you’re up on tiptoes following every brush of her lips when she finally pulls back. You’re bereft, for a moment, but no, this is right, you want whatever she wants. And she still wants _you,_ her hands are still on you, skimming down over your thorax to toy with the hem of your shirt. Yes. Whatever she wants.

                She bends down to press a kiss to the base of your neck, and you shiver at the prickle of her fangs against your skin. She’s still so close that you can feel every breath against your neck as she asks, “If you’re mine, pet, why don’t I give you something to mark you out, to be sure that everybody knows? We wouldn’t want anyone thinking they could just come up and steal you.”

                Oh no, no, that would be the worst, she’s absolutely right—You stumble over yourself trying to agree with her and flush with embarrassment, but she only laughs gently and kisses you soft and glancing along your mouth until you finally manage to stem the flow of words.

                “Kneel for me,” she says, “And take off your shirt.”

                You do, without question, and watch as she pulls a small lacquered box out of her sylladex. You’re curious, but watch without demanding answers from her, breathing slow and shallow as you wait for her to touch you again.

                You do feel a thrill of fear run off her spine when you see her draw a tiny, sharp needle from the box. You almost want to run, anything, but the urge fades as she kneels beside you and rests a soft hand on your thigh.

                She smiles so kindly when she sees your expression, and you want to apologize, tell her you’re sorry, but the words freeze in your throat. She runs her hand up your side, soft and gentle, and you melt into her touch. Her hand drifts to your rumblesphere, her thumb brushes across your nipple, and you gasp and want to beg her for more. She raises the needle. Your head is spinning. You want to make her happy, you do, but you’re afraid—

                “Shhh, dear heart, it will only hurt for a moment. You’ll barely feel it at all, I promise.”

                She’s wrong. It hurts, it hurts so badly, and you want to thrash and cry out and run, but her hands are on you, steady and soothing, and you hold yourself still for her and shiver.

                “So good,” she murmurs, “Such a good girl, you’re doing so well for me.”

                You can’t help making a tiny pained noise at the back of your throat as she pulls the needle free and slides the ring into place. You can see the tiny charm dangling from the ring, cobalt blue with her sign, and yes. That’s. Good. You’re marked, you’re hers, and that reassurance is almost enough to make you forget the throbbing ache in your rumblesphere.

                She still has the needle, she’s still looking at you, waiting for you to, to something, what are you supposed to do? She takes pity on you, and laughing gently, asks, “The other one?”

 _Oh_. Of course. You’d. Forgotten. You take a slow breath. The first one hurt, it still hurts so badly. You don’t want it, you don’t. But she wants you to want it, so you let yourself smile and melt into her and say, “ _Please_.”

                It hurts more, you think, both when she pierces you and when she slides the ring into place. You try to hold it back, but you can’t help the way that tears spring into your eyes as she slips her ring into you. The piercings are twin points of pounding pain in your thorax, and they hurt so badly, but you want to be good for her, you do—

                As soon as the ring is settled, she tugs you down into your arms, soothing you and praising you for being such a good pet, so good, telling you that you did so well, that you were perfect. You could almost cry that she’s being so kind and gentle, you don’t deserve her and you can’t believe that you have her, that you’re _hers_.

                By the time you pull your head up, the dreambubble has begun to fade. No, _no_ , it’s too soon, you can’t—She sighs, looking around as she slowly begins to drift away. Then her eyes come back to you, and she smiles tenderly. “Don’t fret, you’ll find me again, won’t you? You’ll be good, and find a way back to me?”

                Yes, of _course_ , you couldn’t imagine doing anything else, you’ll find her if you have to search every dreambubble in every universe. You _will_. You cling to her as long as you can, but she’s fading so quickly and you’ve had so little time together. She’s almost gone when she takes hold of one of your piercings and gives it a gentle little tug, and smiles at the way it makes you gasp.

                The last thing she says before she disappears is, “Remember darling, just remember that now you’re mine.”


	16. Cronus/GHB: Nippleplay/Tit Torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a big power differential, especially from the POV perspective, but trust me, Cronus is consenting _very_ enthusiastically
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/120081787021/relationships-cronus-ghb-rating-e-words-619)

                The wiggler is in over his head. He is _greatly_ out of his motherfucking depth. And yet he sits there, asking at you anything you’re willing to give, not a caution for himself, but only a wild desperation for whatever he can get. He’s even let you tie his arms up behind him, tight enough as even a saltlicker like him can’t break free, set himself entirely at the mercy of the grand motherfucking highblood of the Alternian church.

                Shit was so hilarious, you offered up a prayer to messiahs, wondering at whether it might be funnier to take his surrender and kill him instead, a second death to wipe him out of existence altogether. But after a moment’s reflection, you decide there’s more mirth in pleasure. Ain’t no excess of entertainment in the afterlife, an opportunity like this is something worth savoring. And less kindness in pleasure too, depending how long you decide to draw it out.

                So the wiggler is in over his head, and he is most motherfucking _eager_. He’s sitting there across your thigh, arms tied tight and fins fluttering with every breath, and already grinding himself against your leg as best as he can when his feet barely touch floor. His bulge is out, and you can feel the wet of his nook through your pants. It would be kind to touch him there, but kind ain’t even worth considering.

                Instead, you pay him attention everywhere else. You pinch his grubscars to see him writhe, listen to the noises he makes when you let your claws graze along his gills. Fins, horns, everywhere you touch he reacts like a dream, begs at you louder and louder to touch his bulge, fill his nook, _anything_. But the best reaction of all you stumble across is when you turn to his pert little rumblespheres and tweak a nipple.

                He gasps at that, curling forward around your hand, and fuck, if shit’s going to be that hilarious, it would be practically a sin to ignore this opportunity. He thrashes with every pinch and twist and prickle of claws, yet does the wiggler attempt escape? No, you think that if he had freedom, he’d push himself into your hands harder, chasing after every touch. No matter how overwhelmed he may be, he is desperate in equal measure, and his hair falls into his eyes as he cries out for more. His bulge seeks at his nook, but with him all grinding up against your leg, there’s no space for it to fill him, and he sobs distress even while he chases your hands and begs and pleads at you.

                When you bend mouth to rumblespheres, that undoes him. He sobs and shakes against you, spilling himself all over your thigh, despite how rough the cloth must feel against his nook. You keep your mouth on him through it, through the aftershocks, until he begins to struggle weakly against you. And yet you pull away, and what does the wiggler do but immediately go back to grinding himself all up and down your thigh, making incoherent needy noises when you jog your leg up against him. His bulge makes attempt to sheathe, but doesn’t even come close before it swells out again, saturated and dripping. You wonder if—no, you wonder only _how long_ it will take for you to make him come again. You wonder _how many times_ you can make him come again. And hell if you’re going to touch his nook now, when it’s so hilarious to play with his rumblespheres and watch him fall apart. Best distraction the afterlife ever offered you, and hell if you aren’t going to take full motherfucking advantage of it.


	17. Mituna/Kankri/Latula: Emotion Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/122134153406/relationships-mituna-kankri-latula-rating-mature)

                You are sitting in the corner with your arms tied behind your back when Mituna begins kissing Latula. You watch for only a moment before looking away. Logically, you know it is in your power—You could always stand, you’re certain you could find a way to manage the doorknob, though just imagining fumbling your way around like a drunken idiot makes your cheeks burn, especially at a time like this, when you just want to leave with _dignity_ , when you just want to get away from all the wet noises and little sounds coming from across the room. You have your eyes tight shut, but with your hands tied, you can’t cover your ears, and you hate yourself for being so infantile about this—but you don’t, you. You’d still cover your ears if you only _could_.

                You hear Latula gasp, and look before you can help yourself. You begin to turn away, to pretend you never noticed anything, but. It doesn’t matter, neither of them is paying you the slightest bit of attention. Mituna has his hand down the front of Latula’s leggings, and you can see her bulge twisting under the fabric. You can’t see what he’s doing, but you can hear all of the little noises she makes as he touches her. You’re staring now, but it still makes no difference, they only have eyes for each other, you don’t even warrant a glance. Latula pulls Mituna in for a kiss, and when they break away, she smiles and laughs, and somehow that’s even worse than the moans. Your bulge pulses in its sheath, and you hate yourself for it.

                You breathe. And you do force yourself to look away again. It’s… easier. You stare at the wall and count the seconds, and make snide remarks to yourself about their probable stamina. It’s tempting to vocalize those thoughts, but no, you’d rather die than let them know they’re getting to you like this. And, of course, it is completely understandable that your bulge is pressing up against the seam of your pants right now. No failing on your part, just a simple biological response to external stimulation. You are above such petty concerns, and as such, you choose to occupy yourself by composing a speech for Mituna and Latula about how inherently oppressive and triggering this situation is and all the aspect of the scenario they failed to address and their lack of consideration for your feelings—

                You’re distracted when you hear Latula whispers something soft to Mituna, and you miss exactly what it is she says, but you turn your attention to them in time to hear him reply, “Love you too, so ffuckin’ _much_ —”

                Your cheeks weren’t burning before, they’re burning _now_ , this, this is so unbelievably brazen, so shameless, shows a fundamental lack of sensitivity towards others, but the words choke off in your throat when you get a decent look at them. They. Aren’t even engaging in any sort of sexual intercourse, there’s no reason you should find this so difficult to watch. He’s just in her lap with his legs around her waist, she’s wrapped up in him just as much as he’s wrapped up in her, arms around each other, forehead to forehead and smiling like there isn’t anyone else in the world.

                Your eyes prickle humiliatingly, but you manage to grit out, “This is. _Incredibly._ Problematic.”

                They break apart in a flash, Latula braces Mituna as he rolls up to his feet, then stands and stretches before following him across the room to you. Mituna throws himself down carelessly across your lap, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction of reacting, but you can’t help jumping when he applies his mouth to your throat and begins sucking a mark into your neck.

                Latula flicks him on the horn as she goes by. “Babe. Hold your hoofbeasts.” She settles down behind you, and when she rests a possessive hand on the back of your neck, you realize you’re shivering and you can’t stop. “Hey now. You okay?”

                “ _No,_ ” you snarl before you can catch yourself. You stop. Take a breath. Mituna pulls away from your throat, but as it turns out, that’s only so he can get his hands up under the hem of your sweater.

                You can’t make your voice work, but Latula just slowly unwinds the rope from around your arms and doesn’t press you further. She carefully takes your arms, one by one, and bends them down to rest at your sides. You’re at a loss as to what you even _do_ now, but she reaches around your waist, and just holds herself there against you as you settle.

                You rather think she might have a better idea of how you’re feeling than you do. Which is making some very presumptuous assumptions, both of you, but you can’t bring yourself to protest when it’s such a relief to just surrender into whatever she wants from you. So you don’t argue when she finally tips Mituna out of your lap and tugs you back against her, leaning you up against her thorax with her legs bracketing you on either side. Mituna isn’t at all fazed, he watches you from where he’s sprawled out on the floor, and when you make eye contact, he waggles his eyebrows and licks his lips, and all you can do is blush. Once Latula has you settled, he puts a hand on each of your knees to spread them wide, and Latula’s arms reach around your waist to rest on your thighs. You can feel your pulse in your nook.

                “Remember,” says Latula, “You only have to tell us if anything is problematic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts, Kankri's safeword is 'problematic,' but Mituna and Latula haven't told Kankri that, because he'd get all pissy that they're making light of Very Serious Issues, but whenever he says that what they're doing is problematic, they treat it as either a 'red' or 'yellow' based on context.


	18. Gamzee/Jane: Pervertibles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/123866837496/relationships-gamzee-jane-rating-hard-t-words)

                The first time Gamzee steals a taste of batter, you rap him – gently!— across the knuckles with your wooden spoon. He grins in an entirely unapologetic way and says, “Aw, sis, don’t be hating a brother for wanting a taste of this little miracle you’re cooking up right here.”

                You sniff. “It’ll be more of a miracle when it comes out of the oven.”

                The way he grins makes it almost impossible not to smile back. “Or I could be up and tasting the miracle every step of its creation.”

                You try to hold out, you really do, but your resolve wavers in a matter of seconds. “Fine, then. You can taste, _but_. You’re going to get punished for every taste you steal, remember that.”

                He nods so earnestly, but punishment in the future isn’t nearly as urgent as batter _now_ (and to be fair, you agree with his reasoning wholeheartedly), and you keep careful count of every time he gives in to temptation and steals a taste of batter. You do credit yourself with being a fast hand in the kitchen, but he is a _very_ fast taster.

                By the time you pop the cake in the oven, it’s hard to keep the grin off your face. You turn to Gamzee. “Was it worth it?”

                He smiles, slow and lazy. “Yeah, sis, best miracle a brother ever did taste.”

                You turn to the sink to wash off your spoon. “And what comes after the tasting?” He hesitates, and you chuckle. “Punishment, of course.”

                He’s still smiling when you turn back to him. “I guess a brother’s all up and ready to pay his dues.”

                You hook a finger into the collar of his shirt and lead him over to the kitchen table. You drop the spoon on the table, pull out a chair for yourself, and sit, and when he pauses, uncertain, you tug him down for a quick kiss—then bend him over your lap. He shivers when you run a finger under his waistband. It would be fun to savor this, perhaps… but not when you have a cake in the oven. Later.

                “Did you count how many samples you took?”

                “N—no?”

                “Mm.” You tug his pants halfway down his thighs, then run your hand up the back of his legs. “I did.”

                He shivers again. “Sis—”

                “I’ll give you a hint.” You’re practically purring as you pick up the spoon. “It’s more than twenty.”

                You rest the spoon against him, not hitting, not yet—You listen to the way his breathing changes and just savor the _anticipation._ When you feint like you’re going to run your hand between his legs, he gasps, and you feel it against your thighs more than you hear it, and oh yes, you are going to enjoy this. When you lift the spoon like you’re about to strike, he flinches hard and fast, then relaxes by degrees when the blow never lands.

                “We’ve got a half hour until the cake comes out of the oven,” you tell him. “And I plan to make that time count.” You raise the spoon. “Now Gamzee, count for me.”


	19. Nepeta/Equius: Service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/123872578366/relationships-equius-nepeta-rating-honestly)

          When you slink into Equius’s respiteblock, you are… already purretty sure you’re not wanted, but you go anyways. You know for _certain_ you’re not wanted when Equius doesn’t turn to look at you, doesn’t look up from his husktop, and says, “You will leave now.”

          Hmmnn. Yes… but no. You’re pawsitive he _means_ it, but also you think that being alone is the exact opposite of what he needs. All the time in the world to stew over efurrything and make it all worse in his pan and convince himself even harder that everything is the worst _ever_ see it’s totally true look how alone and unhappy he is right now. But you do understand. People are _hard_ , they’re exhausting and complicated and once you get one thing wrong it sets off an avalanche of another and another and another until you’re just about ready to _scream_ if you have to say another word to anyone ever.

          So instead you sit down on the floor next to Equius’s chair. You can feel him watching you, even if he’s purrtending to have all his attention on his husktop. He starts to say, “Nepeta—”

          “Don’t mind me,” you cut him off. “I’m just a simple purrbeast, here to visit her favorite troll.”

          And that’s it. Not a word more between you. He tries to ignore you for a while longer, you can see it in the tense way he holds himself, the stiff line of his thoracic support column. He carefully doesn’t look at you—expect when he thinks you’re looking somewhere else. He’s so purrecious you can hardly stand it.

          When he finally drops a hand to oh-so-accidentally land on top of your head, you still don’t say a word. You just tilt yourself over to rest your cheek against his thigh. His hand just _happens_ to stay where it _happened_ to fall. But after a few minutes, his fingers move, so gentle you know how hard he must be concentrating, ruffling the hair around your horns, brushing across your scalp. You try not to turn to look at him too-too obviously, but you can still hear him breathing easier as he works on his husktop with just the one hand.

          You’re there for… a while? A long while. You could practically doze off there, but no! You are on a noble quest to keep an eye on a certain silly moirail. His hand is still on you, a constant, relaxing point of contact, whether he’s combing his fingers through your hair or running them along your horns, he hasn’t taken his hand away once. You’re not going to look _now_ and give the game away, but you’re purretty sure his attention is on you a whole lot more than it’s on the husktop.

          It ends when he suddenly, abruptly stands. You’re a little lost for a second, but Equius takes a few stiff, uneasy steps to his lounging platform and sits. You wait for a cue. You are but a simple purrbeast! Equius looks away, and you can see the blue on his purrecious cheeks, and he pats the sleeping platform beside him twice.

          You do break character enough to shrug out of your jacket, but then you jump up on the sleeping platform beside him, and curl up against his hip, hooking your chin over his thigh. Equius puts a hand on your side, and he stays where he is for a moment, all hunched in on himself, and then in slow motion just tips over backward to lie flat on the lounging platform.

          You stay where you are for a second, then edge up his body just enough to take a quick look at him. He’s just staring at the ceiling, but his gaze flickers to you for a moment, and his eyes close, and you can feel him tense up. You counter this by laying halfway across his thorax and nuzzling your cheek up against his. Your Equius, your territory, marked as yours for _purrmanent_. It takes a minute for him to react, but you are the most patient of purrbeasts. His hand slides up your back, slowly, then back down again. You smile, where he can’t see it, and burrow into him even closer.

          It takes him a good long while to do anything else. But you can feel him starting to relax, bit by tiny bit, and you uncurl one paw—hand so that you can rest it all possessive-protective on his thorax. He lifts his free hand, slow and stiff like it takes all the effort in the world for him just to move, and it comes to rest against the back of your neck, holding you against him. You rest your cheek against his and are _held_ , and you purr for him until the tension slowly, slowly bleeds out of him, and finally his breathing relaxes into sleep.


	20. Jade/Kankri: Obedience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/124044725916/relationships-jade-kankri-rating-t-words-1522)

                You… aren’t shaking. You know because you are currently putting a great deal of effort into _not_ shaking. But you can’t say that you’re really accomplishing anything else. Jade is sitting on your concupiscent platform in her underwear, so relaxed and comfortable in her own skin, and you—Try not to compare yourself to her. You managed to pull your sweater off, but now you’re just fiddling with the zipper of your pants, and, and Jade will never believe you need _this_ long to undress yourself. But you can’t bring yourself to pull the zipper down, your pan won’t stop racing in circles, and you think perhaps you are about to be ill.

                Jade cuts through your thoughts with, “Kankri?” You jump, and she puts her hands in the air, making little pacifying motions at you. You’re almost offended by the conciliatory gesture, as, as if she believes you incapable of simple concupiscent—But no, humans do have a much less sophisticated romantic structure than trolls do, you shouldn’t forget the romantic privilege your upbringing has gifted you with. Jade is still watching you with concerned eyes. “Kankri? You know we don’t have to do this if you’re not up for it, right?”

                You sniff. “Even _if_ you have forgotten, I did tell you that I am a full adult, I have done my duty and contributed slurry to the drones—multiple times—and it is insensitive in the extreme that you would feel the need to—”

                “ _Kankri_.” You manage to cut yourself off, with an effort. Jade cocks her head to the side. “I mean we don’t need to do this if you don’t _want_ to.”

                You twist the waistband of your pants between your claws. Want is such a loaded word, isn’t it. What do you want? Obviously you’d like to have—to have concupiscent relations with your partner, or things never would have progressed to this point. But do you want to be here? Do you want to be naked? Do you want _her_ to be naked? What do you want, how are you expected to know, your drone contributions have been a matter of necessity, there was never any issue of _wanting_ , except perhaps not wanting to endure the corrective culling resulting from a failure to contribute, how are you supposed to contextualize those emotions in this framework and—

                “ _Kankri_.”

                You stare at her, hopeless. She reaches out a hand to you, and your arm doesn’t feel attached to your body, but you manage to lift your hand and set it in hers. She pulls you to sit beside her on the concupiscent platform and you try not to flinch, and brace yourself for—for—Whatever you were waiting for never comes, Jade just sits there watching you. You aren’t even touching at the shoulders, and you can’t decide whether you’re grateful or whether you want to close the space and lean into that contact.

                Jade hums to herself. “What if we make this a game?” Before you can collect yourself and tell her that you don’t appreciate being patronized, she continues, “Something simple! The simplest. I give an order, then you give an order, and we just take turns.”

                You manage a sniff. “I would draw your attention to the fact that this game is very incomplete, and your lack of forethought may have negative consequences, such, such as, for one, the lack of any rule regarding the cessation of the game if one party,” (you, of course it will be you, why would it ever be her), “becomes uncomfortable.”

                To your surprise, Jade laughs. “If you want me to stop, then you say stop, duh.” She bends forward to peer in your face. “You don’t think I’m going to ignore what you want, do you? In fact! To play extra carefully safe, I propose an additional rule that if one of us thinks the other is unhappy, we have to stop and check in. Deal?”

                You’re certain you’re missing subtleties that, that you should be intelligent enough to catch, but it’s so easy to give in and just stop thinking and just say yes, and you want to be _held_ so badly you think you might die.

                “You start,” says Jade.

                You swallow hard, and freeze. You look at her, pleading silently, and she smiles at you and you’re so fucking _grateful_ for her you can’t breathe.

                “Hmm,” she says. “Touch me?”

                You start to reach out, and pause. “Where?”

                She laughs. “Wherever you want!”

                You only brush your claws against her shoulder, but she still shivers and smiles, and you can feel the tension begin to ease out of you. And, oh, it’s your turn, you realize. Before you can panic, you take a slow, deep breath, and say, “Touch me?”

                She gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, then pulls back again and says, “Touch me!”

                It’s easy. Almost—almost wrigglerish. But you can _do_ this, you can almost even enjoy this, Jade touches your arms, your shoulders, once she rests her hand on your hair, and it’s not so very different from being clothed together. It’s a familiar routine, when Jade looks at you, bites her lip, and says, “Kiss me?”

                You… _don’t_ panic. Mostly. You tell yourself that she, she _told_ you that you could touch wherever, surely that extends to kissing as well. You bend to kiss her arm, awkward and uneasy, and your nose runs into her shoulder before you catch yourself and adjust your angle. Your cheeks are burning when you pull back. You should ask her to kiss you too. You can keep up, you _can_. Instead you say, “Touch me.”

                Jade doesn’t reproach you—not, not that you thought she would. But you. Are aware you can be more demanding than perhaps you _ought_ , and your cheeks burn again when you compare your own probable behavior to Jade’s. She has you kiss her again, two more times, and then you finally steel yourself, brace your shoulders, and ask her to kiss you.

                She was already smiling, but that makes her _beam_ , and she reaches down, picks up your hand, and turns it over to drop a kiss on your palm.

                You’re breathless from wanting her, and yet you open your mouth and what comes out is, “That was a kiss _and_ a touch.”

                But she only laughs and laughs. “Then your new order is to kiss _and_ touch me!”

                You bite your lip, though you suspect it does little to hide your smile, and this time you bend in to rest a hand on Jade’s thigh and kiss the side of her neck. From so close, you can hear her breath catch, and when you give her new orders, you manage to tell her to kiss and touch you too. She cups your cheek and presses her lips to your horn, and you shiver at the feeling of her echoing down through your hornbeds.

                It continues, back and forth. Order after order. You never realized just how many ways there were to touch a person. Jade laces your fingers together, and just as you think she’s about to bring your lips together, she changes course at the last minute to kiss you on the tip of your nose. You brace yourself and take a deep breath. And when she orders you to kiss her, you put your hand to her jawline, careful of your claws, turn her head towards you, and press your lips to hers.

                You’re—You’re nearly certain you’re doing it wrong, but you still don’t want to _stop_. It lasts until you break apart to breathe, and then—Oh. Right—You—It’s your turn, and all you can think of to say is, “Keep kissing me?”

                She laughs and reels you in, and it is easier, with practice, finding the ways you mesh together, up against her—you’d never realized lips were so _soft_.

                At one point she pulls back, just far enough to say, “Touch me.” For a moment, you’re bitterly disappointed, but she winds her arms around your neck and holds you close, and you bring a hand across your body to rest awkwardly on her thigh.

                The next time you part for air, you stammer, “T—touch me?” Jade smiles and rests a hand on your waist. And it continues like that until your hands on each other feel like the most natural thing in the world, and there’s an urgency to your kisses that, that you don’t understand but all you need is _more_.

                When Jade pulls away, breathless, you clutch desperately at her, but she laughs and nuzzles her cheek against yours, and lets you cling. She takes your face in both hands, stares you straight in your eyes, and says, “Take off your pants?”

                You pause for a moment, bring one hand up to rest over hers. Her thumb is stroking over your cheek, soft and soothing, and that _should_ feel pale but all you can think of is her hands on your body, under your clothing, the heat of her against you—

                You take one last slow breath, shut your eyes, and nod.


	21. Roxy/Feferi: Fisting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/124208154206/relationships-roxy-feferi-rating-e-words-601)

          “That’s not a thing,” Feferi says.

          You glance over at her, then back to the movie. “It’s a thing.”

          Pfff, you can hear her glub from the other side of the couch, and you have to fight to keep the smile off your face. “It isn’t!”

          When you look over at her, she’s got her cheeks puffed out and her arms crossed over her chest, and omg too precious. “It is a thing, I swear.” You lift a hand. “Scout’s honor.”

          “I don’t believe you! And I don’t care about the honor of your silly human caste.” She sniffs and toootally fails to hide the way she’s smiling. “But no, reel-y, I don’t believe you.”

          “I could show you videos?”

          Her eyes narrow. “I call your bluff. I bet anybody could fake a video!”

          “Irl demo? Just for you… _bayb_.”

          Hahaha, she totally laughs at the pun. “You don’t know how to do that!” And she stops, pauses—“Do you?”

          “Naw dude, I’m a super pro.” You flex for her, kiss your bicep, and waggle your eyebrows at her. “What do you think my fistkind is for?”

          Pffffttt, _oops_ , her fins pin back against her head and she’s looking _pretty dang horrified_. “…you’re going to punch me in the _nook_?”

\--

          “That’s it,” you tell her, “That’s four, you’re doing super great.”

          Your one hand is… occupied (taken? captive?), and Feferi’s got a death grip on the other. Kind of a shame, ‘cause her bulge looks like it could use some love, or you could’ve played with her gills to help relax her a bit. But this is fine too!

          Feferi sniffs and tosses her head, and her smile is only a teeny tiny bit shaky. “I can take more.”

          “You sure you don’t wanna, like, wait a minute, or…?”

          “Give me moray!” She demands.

          You pause. “Look, okay, I’m open to plenty of toys in the bedroom… but live animals is where I draw the sexy line.”

          It takes her a moment, but then she cracks up so bad that it’s hard to keep your hand where it is. Also making it harder is that you’re laughing suuuuper hard at your own cheesy joke, but you’ve got this, you pull it together before she does, and while she’s still giggling, you press your thumb up against her nook.

          She knows what you’re doing, you can feel her tense up, but when you slide your thumb into her all she says is, “Mmnn _nn_ —“

          “Is that a good moan or a bad moan? You’ve gotta lemme know if I’m messing anything up, I’m only used to wacky alien anatomy, not perfectly normal troll bits.”

          “Good,” she gasps. “Don’t stop!”

          Okay then, all systems are go. You’re pretty sure she’s got this just fine, but you still take it sloooow and gentle as you ease your hand up into her. Once your knuckles are clear, you _know_ she’s good, and you can just watch and grin as she swallows your hand up to the wrist.

          Feferi props herself up on her elbows. “Oh— _Oh_.”

          “Feels good?”

          She doesn’t answer you _exactly_ , but she shifts to press herself further down on your hand, and you think that’s some _pretty good_ nonverbal communication. You tug your other hand free of hers, get ahold of her bulge and feed it into your mouth, and then all you have to do is watch her face and swallow around her, and it’s only moments before she cries out and shakes and soaks your arm up to the elbow.

          You lift your mouth off her and grin. “Believe me now?”


	22. Bro/Darkleer: Silk/Velvet/Feathers/Furs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/124213041191/relationships-bro-darkleer-rating-e-words-1014)

          This troll dude fascinates you like nobody’s business. He’s got a good couple of feet on you (and you’re not short by any stretch of the imagination), he’s twice your width, and could probably lift you up with one hand. When you met him you thought ‘I’m gonna climb him like a tree,’ and then had to stop and laugh, because that expression had suddenly become a lot more literal than ever before. And yet the moment you start to give him attention, he just fucking _melts_ for you. He acts like you’re the one who’ll break him with a touch instead of the other way around, and manages to look up into your eyes from three goddamn feet over your head.

          You can do just about anything to this guy and he’ll love the fuck out of it (he let you break a wooden _sword_ over his back, how unreal is that, you just about came in your pants), and he’ll take the hardest shit you can dish out without even a flinch, but the gentle stuff? Wrecks him seven ways to Sunday.

          You’ve got him down on the floor for you now, hands and knees, with his sweet little alien pussy on full display. Took you a while to figure out how he ticks. Most people you’ve played with, the game is ordering them to stay quiet and watching them struggle. Him? Completely the other way around. You just watch him for a while, let the silence draw out until you think you see him starting to relax. “Say something. How you feeling?”

          He flinches, recovers. He’s basically got self-control coming out his asshole, but you’re the king of chill, you can catch all his little secret tells before he can hide them. He takes a slow breath, and just as you’re wondering if you’ll have to punish him, he manages, “I feel very—“ Pause. Another breath. “Exposed. Vulnerable.”

          “Anything else?”

          He shivers. “I wonder what you plan to do to me.”

          You chuckle. “The million dollar question. Don’t worry, you’re going to like it.”

          When you strap the blindfold over his eyes, you can see the way he very, _very_ carefully hold himself still. Except for the way he… _doesn’t_ react, you’d say that he reacts like a dream. He non-reacts like a dream. You take your time walking around behind him, quietly decaptchalogue a smuppet. He had been relaxing before, but now you can see him winding up tighter and tighter. Fucking beautiful is what it is.

          When you stop behind him, he shivers for a bare second before he suppresses it. He’s so tense you’re swear he’s gonna accidentally break your floor again. And then he’ll pay to fix it and insist you punish him for his negligence. So it’s win/win, really. You kneel down beside him, rest your empty hand on the small of his back (he _nearly_ jumps, which means you’re really getting to him), you raise the smuppet… and brush it along the back of his thigh.

          He makes an involuntary little noise and twitches. Yeah, this smuppet is special order, specifically for tonight, your treat, only the finest velvet from your fabric stash for big blue here. He’s already breathing hard when you lift the smuppet. You move your free hand to his choice ass, rub little circles into him with your thumb, and he tenses—and you move the smuppet to _just_ barely tickle the bottom of his foot.

          Ha, that does the trick, and faster than you expected. His bulge unsheathes in a single wet slide, and hmm. You’ll have to play with delayed gratification more another day, but your dick is giving orders now and it says that’s definitely not the time for that. You ask him, “How you doing now?”

          He’s only just started to say, “I am—” when you push the smuppet’s nose up into his nook, and the words crack into a breathless, “Ah, ah, _ahhhn_ —”

          You flick a fingernail—gently—against the base of his bulge. “I asked you a question.”

          He swallows hard, “I, I, I. This material—”

          You make a mental note to sew about ten million more velvet smuppets asap, but, “Not the question you were asked. Am I going to have to stop for the night?”

          He rocks back against the smuppet, but you only move with him, and he sobs, “Please, no, I. I am. I. _More_. I find myself. Overwhelmed—“

          No fucking shit. You reach down to adjust yourself in your pants. “Anything else.”

          “ _More_ ,” he pleads.

          When you slide the smuppet into him, his head drops and his hair spills into an unfairly gorgeous silky pool on the floor. Also his claws dig into your floor. Welp. Damage is done, might as well go nuts. “Do you want to come?”

          There’s no hesitation when he gasps, “ _Please_.”

          So because you’re a dick, you decaptchalogue a modified cock ring and strap it around the base of his bulge. He doesn’t make any move to resist, but he _sobs._

          You pull the smuppet out of his nook, take a few minutes to just run it up and down his legs, letting him really get the most out of the fabric before you completely destroy it. When you move it to rub against his grubscars, he accidentally tears a chunk of tile off your floor. This is gonna be good.

          This time, when you feed the smuppet’s nose back into his nook, you turn it so that its sweet plush rump brushes right up against his bulge, and you coax it into wrapping around and around, strangling the metaphorical life out of your doomed, stuffed creation. He’s already worked up, you can see the clutch of his bulge against the velvet, the way his hips twitch against nothing as he tries to hold still.

          “Bro,” you tell him. “I’ve got a secret for you.” He only manages an incoherent noise, and you can’t stop yourself grinning from ear to ear. “Brace yourself. I haven’t even turned on the vibration yet.”


	23. Eridan/Sollux: Bodies And Body Parts (Gills)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, this is post-erisolsprite pitchpale erisol. It's a fun flavor of the ship to write, I enjoy it a lot more than writing them as standard-issue pitch!
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/124303126096/relationships-eridan-sollux-rating-m-words-815)

          See, right. This is below your dignity. By all rights, _you_ should be the one tyin’ up other people, not lettin’ some scummy little lowblood tie you up. But it’s. Fine, you know? If it’s him, it’s fine.

          An’ totally ignorant of your incredibly gracious thoughts, the scummy little _fuckin’_ lowblood is sniggering to himself as he ties up your arms behind your back.

          “What’s wrong, ED, don’t think you can handle something this vanilla? Not sure how you’re going to handle the rest, then.”

          You bare your teeth at him and pretend it’s more than a symbolic gesture. He’s got your arms pinned with his psionics while he sorts out the rope, you don’t think you could move even if you tried. “More like I’m pretty fuckin’ sure you don’t have a clue what the hell you’re doin’, an’ I’m gonna have to pay for two prosthetic arms before this is over.” You sniff. “ _Some_ of us can afford them.”

          He just laughs. “Good thing too, highbloods aren’t hatched with the sense to keep their asses in one piece, guess it’s good you can pay for tech to replace the shit that falls off.”

          When he finally gets his psi off your arms, he doesn’t waste any time, goes _right_ the fuck for your gills. You hiss and try to wriggle away, but with your arms all tied up like this he doesn’t even need his psionics to keep you where you are. “Sol, _fuck_ —”

          “What,” he laughs. “Sensitive, much?”

          You snarl. “You fuckin’ _know_ they’re sensitive, they were yours too, you fuckin’ ass.”

          “Yeah, right, forgot we spent all that time with gills definitely playing with ourselves, not wallowing in self-loathing or fielding stupid questions from our stupid human.” He’s just running his fingers along your opercula, but those are _delicate_ organs, that fucker—“Better make up for lost time.”

          He slides his fingers into you all at once, two on each side, because of _course_ two on each side, you shoulda made a bet with him he’d totally do it, you could’ve made a shit-ton of money and pissed him off by graciously giving it back. And ahh, _ahhh_ , “Sol, _fuck,_ slow down—”

          He heaves a sigh, but he does pull his fingers nearly out of you and gives you a chance to catch your breath. Your bulge is out between your legs and you can’t decide if you want to bug him into touching you, or you want to annoy him by pretending there isn’t any problem at all. His fingers still have you ever-so-slightly spread, and you can stop your pan from racing in circles over how _exposed_ you are, how you aren’t sure if that buzz you feel through your insides is nerves or Sol’s psi, an’ you can’t decide whether to tell him to go even deeper or get his hands out of there forever.

          It’s. Weird, okay? It’s fuckin’ weird, an’ it feels good, but you can’t tell if it’s more good or more weird, it’s invasive in a way you’ve never dealt with before, not even really on your own, maybe you’d play with your opercula a bit an’ imagine it was Fef’s hands on you, or Kar’s, but Sol’s hands are _in_ you, they’re _inside your body—_

          “ _Hey_.” Sol pulls a hand out of you, and before you can decide whether you want to argue, he flicks you on the forehead, right between the eyes. “Talk to me, idiot. I had a front row seat to perigees of embarrassing fantasies about this, is this no good?”

          You swallow hard, pull your words together. “’s just. A _lot, fuck—”_

          He moves that hand down to your cheek and cups your jaw, an’. An’ you’re just _movin’_ , okay, it’s just a coincidence that you happen to turn your face into his hand. His fingers slip further into your gills, and you press your cheek into his palm and just focus on breathing. He’s touchin’ you in places you didn’t realize you had nerve endings, it’s so _much_ , but he rubs his thumb in little circles across your cheekbone, and you can do this. You can.

          You can’t help moanin’ a little when your bulge finally decides to get into the game an; twists up into your nook. You know Sol notices, ‘cause he sniggers, the ass. But he keeps one hand on your face and the other one up your gills, an’ fffffuck, he wouldn’t, would he?

          He says, “Bet you can’t come without me touching your nook.”

          An’ fuck. Fuck him. You focus on the way his fingers feel when they stroke along inside you, the way he’s so deep in you it’s like he’s buried in your thoracic cage, an’ you feel your bulge pulse inside your nook. You grin. You've got this. You can handle this. You’re gonna fuckin' do this or die trying.


	24. John/Dave: Writing On The Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to scars and past abuse
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/126679855316/relationship-john-egbertdave-strider-rating)

                John makes sure to set the knife out nice and obvious on your nightstand before he even bothers reaching for the blindfold. Your eyes are locked on it right until he covers them and you swear to god the afterimage is still there even after the whole room is blocked off and it’s just John with his arms around you, tying the blindfold tight and secure. Your brain might be saying safe, sane, and consensual, but your libido is locked in a overriding loop of _pleasepleaseplease_.

                And then, John even presses the knife into your hand. “Go on, open it up,” he says. You can feel the way it bites into the pad of your thumb, and _fuck_ , John can probably see your dick twitch right through your boxers. He laughs, the ass. “I sharpened it and everything! But you might have to show me how to do that better, I think I’m taking off too much of the metal."

                You asked him to tie you to the headboard, but he said no. He wants you to be able to push him off, and fuck it, you think he was this close to safewording out, you’re just grateful he’s _here_ , he’s doing this, it’s happening. Still though, when he takes the knife back, he pauses for a moment to pin your hands to the bed, next to your head. “Leave those there,” he warns. “Or I’ll have to make you regret it.”

                The threats are probably bullshit, but realistically anything that looks like you trying to make him stop is—surprise, surprise—probably going to lead to _stopping_ , that is the worst possible outcome, the biggest goddamn tragedy of your life. Your hands are _glued_ to the bed, superglue bondage, here in the metaphorical flesh, god, you’re so hard, you just want him to _do it_.

                Even though you know the switch is coming, you still can’t help jumping when he runs the credit card—the _knife_ , the, haha, plastic, refrigerated, totally-a-knife—when he runs it down your neck. He doesn’t miss a beat, turns it to press right up against your, god, against your windpipe. You tell yourself that just a press, the tiniest little push more, and that would be it, throat cut, just like before but for _real_ —

                John’s other hand toys with the waistband of your boxers, and you don’t know what you want to push into more, which hand you _need_ more. He laughs at you, because you have the misfortune to be dating the biggest asshole this side of the galaxy, and you’re so fucking glad he’s here, you can’t even force out the words to tell him what you want, and everything is just _John_.

                When he runs the knife over you, you can tell he’s not tracing your scars. You’re—glad. That might have been too much. The idea of him writing over them all, though, marking you all up for himself, _shit_ , the idea had occurred to you, yeah, but it wasn’t ever as real as this, with him running a razor-sharp knife (kinda) over you, while you’re pinned and helpless (sorta), marking you all over with fresh, pink, permanent scars.

                You’re breathing hard, and he’s barely even touched you yet. Jesus. And he can probably tell how bad he’s getting to you. Fuck him for knowing you so well, fuck yourself for opening yourself up so much, and praise every deity of possible existence for putting the two of you in this room together. John pauses over your collarbone, and you can feel him carve (“carve”) a big, swooping J.

                You aren’t expecting it, but that’s the tipping point where everything is too much and too perfect and you’ve already gone past got-no-filter to got-no-words, but fuck it, we have to go deeper and here we are in the land of got-no-filter-two-point-oh. “John, _John_ , shit yes, do it, mark me all up write it all over me—”

                You choke off again when he puts his free hand right over your dick, but he laughs and picks it up where you left off. “Put my name right where everyone can see it, you mean?”

                You can’t words, but god _damn_ can you moan.

                He hums thoughtfully. “I wonder how many people would ask what it means? What would you tell them?” You—can’t, words aren’t coming, you want to talk but you _can’t_ and you’re going to ruin this—John gives your dick a squeeze. “ _Dave._ You have to answer me.”

                “ _Means—,“_ you choke out. “Means. I belong to you.” You still can’t see, but you can feel him smiling when he bends down to kiss you. When he pulls back you whisper, “Means you _own_ me.”

                “ _Fuck_ ,” you hear him whisper. “Dave, _fuck_.”

                He takes his hand away from your dick, which nonono that is the _worst thing_ , but it’s only so he can swing up to straddle your hips, and. You suppose you are okay with the situation, especially when, when _fffffuck_ , he grinds down against you. You can hear him drop the credit card on the sheets, and he takes your hands from where they’re not-pinned by your head, puts them on his hips.

                He runs his hands up your arms, so painfully slow you can hardly stand it. You can barely focus at all with the way his hips are shifting against yours, but you can still feel his fingers catch on all the little raised lines up and down your arms, from, from growing up from when you were young and, and fuck, he knows there’s a _reason_ you only wear long sleeves, why—

                John bends down and whispers, “Could write over all of it. If you wanted.”

                You gasp and arch up against him. Too much, _too perfect_ , but—“You wouldn’t.”

                He hums and sighs, and finally says, “Maybe not. Probably not.”

                Just the idea, though, just that he would bring it up at all— You turn your head to kiss him. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

                “I’m sorry.” He’s quiet for a few moments. You just try to lose yourself in the feeling of his hips grinding down against yours, you can feel his cock sliding against yours through your boxers. This is fine, it _is_ , you’ve already gotten more than you were afraid you would get, you need to not be an asshole about this.

                John finally breaks the silence with a thoughtful “Hmm.”

                “What,” you say. You absolutely positively _do not_ trust him when he gets like this. Fuck, you can practically hear the goddamn prankster’s smile in his voice.

                He takes your wrists and pins them beside your head again. “What about tattoos?”

                “What _about_ tattoos?” He drags his cock against yours, and when you’re done trying to thrash, you say, “Fuck, sorry, but no, what about them?”

                He taps the inside of your wrist. “Instead of scars, idiot. I could even help design them if you wanted.”

                You can feel your dick jump at that, and from the way he laughs, so can he. “Fuck you,” you manage, “You’re just going to cover my arms with dickbutt sleeves.”

                “Well I wasn’t going to until you said that—“

                “ _John no—_ “

                “Or I’d jokingly suggest ‘property of John Egbert,’ but hmm, what’s this? It looks like someone’s sincerely into that idea! Oh Dave, being seen in public without your irony, the scandal!”

                “Shut up,” you gasp, trying your absolute goddamn hardest to rut up against him. “I’m allowed to be ironically sincere, it’s in the irony scout handbook, fuck, _John_ —”

                He only laughs and grinds down against you, his fingers tracing over your arms, and right now, imagining that, it’s, shit, just that contact is almost too much as it is, and when you realize he’s spelling out his own name, you make an embarrassing noise, bury your face in his neck, and ruin your boxers.


	25. Karkat/Dirk: Body worship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/128385487021/relationship-dirkkarkat-rating-m-words-1771)
> 
>  
> 
> Inspired by [Syblatortue's](www.syblatortue.tumblr.com) super-cute [dirkkat picture](http://syblatortue.tumblr.com/post/120743772411/a-troll-being-fascinated-by-tan-lines-for-this)!

          You put a bit gag on Karkat, and that’s where your domly duties end for the night. So hey, you don’t rush it. Not like there’s much to it, you’re just, you know. Putting a gag on a guy. You can’t wait all that long without it getting ridiculous. You still take the time to brush his hair out of his face—a few times, shit keeps falling back down, you’re only trying to keep it out of the way, this definitely isn’t a delaying tactic. He doesn’t say anything, which is unnerving enough, coming from him, but his eyes stay on yours, and even with your shades in the way, you feel way too… observed. You fit the gag into place and buckle it, if for no other reason than it gives you an excuse to break that eye contact.

          And then that’s it. You’re officially not in charge anymore, Karkat does what Karkat wants, and you’re just along for the ride. Not going to lie, you’re pretty fucking lost. It’s different when there are ropes or cuffs, even a spreader bar, anything to give a shape to the experience, something to tell you what to expect. Even something as abstract as words. You wish Karkat laid down a rule or three before this all got started, then you could focus on being the best little sub a guy could ask for, or get creative and think of all the most obnoxious ways to break the rules, or work around them, or _anything_. Just something to let you figure out what you’re going to do.

          But there’s no words, nothing like that right now. That’s what the gag is for. More psychological than anything else, sure you two could try the whole ‘self-control’ thing, but you’re not actually sure Karkat knows how to _not_ talk, you’d honestly give it maybe three, four minutes tops before he forgot the premise of the scene and started telling you exactly what’s on his mind. So a gag. Logical, right? Well yeah, sure, makes good sense on paper, but you’re kind of regretting it. You know how to give up control. What. You do. But see, it’s only comfortable when you’re giving that control to someone else, not when you’re giving up control _and_ taking control from Karkat. This shouldn’t be such a federal issue, and yet here you are. But not going to lie, you’re pretty curious about how bad it’s going to get.

          And you’ve been sitting here. For a while. This isn’t ideal, you’re too busy complaining about nothing to even focus on the scene. But Karkat’s still sitting there, just watching you. And when he finally moves, ha, _fuck_ , you should have seen this coming, but the very first thing he does is pluck the shades off your face. He puts them on himself, which okay. That’s cute as fuck, and you could actually stand to see that happen more often. But the downside is that you’re left painfully exposed. Your clothes are all still on, but you feeling completely bare-ass naked. From the way Karkat rolls his eyes, he can probably read that emotion straight off your face. Not what you would have chosen, but. You aren’t in charge of this scene. You take a slow breath, and steady yourself.

          He takes off your shirt next, which actually… helps? It helps. This is feeling more like familiar territory. Point of truth, you don’t actually have sex with your shades on. You _sometimes_ don’t have sex with your shades on. With Karkat’s hands creeping up under your shirt, it’s something to focus on that isn’t quietly freaking out about what emotions he must be able to read off your face, and you have a moment to shut your eyes and compose yourself while he fights to get your shirt over your shoulders. You could help him but… you’re not in charge here, and he hasn’t _asked_ you for help. You wouldn’t want to presume. He takes off his own shirt in _significantly_ less time, and glares at you once you’re both finally shirtless, and you honestly don’t mind the way your mouth quirks upwards.

          He takes you down to your knees first, then eases you onto your back on the floor. He sits straddling your waist, but then doesn’t make another move. You stop yourself from breaking the silence, but it’s harder to force yourself to stay still and not do _something_ to take control of the situation. Fuck, this really shouldn’t be so difficult, it’s not like he’s never topped you before. He’s watching you though, and you’re so, so certain he can tell exactly what you’re thinking. Instead of meeting his eyes, you watch the way his throat works when he swallows. He sighs heavily past the gag, which is bending the rules a little, but he’s cute and it’s appropriate, so hey. You’ll take it.

          It feels like forever until he finally reaches out a hand to touch you, and then it’s just to run a finger down over your collarbone, down and across your chest. When you crane your head to look down, oh. He’s tracing your tan line. You thought it was hard having him hold that eye contact with you not in your shades, but this is almost more intense. His thumb rubs back and forth from pale, untanned skin to fading sunburn. You wonder if he can feel a difference. He’s looking at you like you’re something special and worthwhile, and you don’t know how to handle it.

          So, you’re a dick about it. He put you on your back, so you prop yourself up on your elbows and rest a hand on his thigh. He’s fine with it for a moment before he catches back up with the scene, and then heh, you get the most poisonous glare from him. It’s too bad he isn’t that big on giving punishments, or you could definitely steer this scene from the bottom. You probably could anyways, to be honest, but come on. This was supposed to be something nice for both of you, and that didn’t last even five minutes before you decided to fuck it up.

          So you let him take your hand off his leg. You let him put a hand at the base of your throat and press you back down against the floor. He sure looks like he wishes he could talk right now, he’d probably give you a piece of his mind that lasted for a whole twenty minutes, but he has to settle for a warning squeeze at the base of your throat. He wouldn’t do it—or at least you’d have to talk to him very seriously about how much you wanted him to do it before he’d even consider it—but you can appreciate the sentiment. He puts both your hands against the floor too, resting beside your shoulders. Then he sits back and just… looks at you.

          The looking lasts for a while. Then the touching starts again. Just tracing your tan lines across your chest and shoulders. Sometimes it’s just the pads of his fingers, sometimes it’s just a single clawtip. You get that trolls don’t tan, and this is apparently some exotic hot xeno action you’re serving up, but it’s so difficult to stop yourself from shifting uncomfortably under his scrutiny. You curl your fingers so that your nails bite into your palm, just for something to _do_ , but he stops, uncurls your hands, and presses them down into the floor again. You shut your eyes, but then he taps you on your cheek, and when you look at him, he mimes an exaggerated ‘eyes open’ with his hands. You have to smile. Maybe you spoke too soon when you said he was bad at punishments.

          You don’t even realize how hard you are until he shifts against you, and your sharp intake of breath comes awfully close to a vocalization, but _ahh_. He grinds back against you again, deliberate this time, smiling at you past the gag. And then he goes back to touching you. Your face this time, even more delicate than he was with your chest, and you wonder—tan lines there too, you bet, you don’t take off your shades if you can help it, that, that makes sense. But he’s tracing lines that don’t match up to your shades and he’s rocking against you with an erratic rhythm that, fff, that makes it so hard to concentrate—

          He’s running his thumb across your lips when you feel his bulge shift against you through two layers worth of pants. It’s embarrassing and thrilling, because if he’s that turned on, he must know how badly he’s getting to you. But on the upside, he knows just how badly he’s getting to you. You want to arch up against him, but that’s not how this goes, you let Karkat take the lead, Karkat can’t tell you to do it, you just have to sit here and. Take it. God, this is the best idea, how did you never think of this before?

          You’re practically shaking with the effort of not moving when Karkat presses his thumb into your mouth. You can’t turn your head to look away from him, can’t do _anything_ , and he just watches your eyes while he rocks into you, fast and hard, with purpose, this isn’t how trolls do sex, it’s how humans do it, he’s doing this for you – and he’s watching you so close with his cheeks flushed read, you can hear his breath coming hard and you can feel his bulge pressing against you through his pants, you wonder how sensitive his nook must be by now, whether he’s dripping yet, how much he wants you—He doesn’t break the eye contact when you come, and you don’t let yourself shut your eyes. Your self-control doesn’t stretch quite far enough to cover a silent orgasm, not right now, and you moan past Karkat’s fingers in your mouth.

          Once you’re done, Karkat rocks back on his heels, looking pleased as hell, and you can’t really blame him. You push yourself up on your elbows again, because it’ll be much easier to finish him off from another angle, but you freeze when he frowns down at you. He takes your shoulders and gently, _firmly_ , presses you back down against the floor. He shakes his head at you, then takes your hands to put them back where they were before. Then he puts his hands on your chest, and again, starts tracing the lines of your tan.


	26. Karkat/Terezi: Authority Figures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/128613646236/relationship-karkatterezi-rating-soft-m-words)
> 
> Warning for hemocaste play

          The accused sits before you. Kneels before you. _Perhaps_ you have taken the opportunity to tie the accused’s wrists to his ankles and he couldn’t stand even if he dared to! It leaves him open and defenseless, pulled over-so-slightly into a dreadfully vulnerable arch. And watching him struggle to find a comfortable position makes you laugh! Which is as good a motivation as any.

          You let the silence go on much longer than he thinks it will. You can just smell the way he wants to speak! He shifts and shifts, and it isn’t his knees, not yet, this is just him waiting for you to _say something_.

          So you wait! You wait until he pulls himself up, draws his shoulders back, and opens his mouth, and _that_ is the moment where you cut off his first word with, “Why are you here?”

          He startles, and you laugh. And you don’t get a word more, from him, but when you bend in close, you can just smell the way his jaw is clenched tight shut. You let the silence get awkward again. He wants to speak, but he’s just waiting for you to interrupt, waiting—

          He starts, “What am…” and trails off as he waits for you to interject. Which you don’t! So he snarls and presses on with, “What am I accused of?”

          Ooh. You don’t laugh at that. You just smile, smile so wide the top of your head could just fall off! “Why mister Vantas, so forward!”

          He grinds his teeth. “You can’t—you can’t fucking hold me when I never broke the law.”

          “So disingenuous! Mister Vantas. We both know you break the law through your very existence.” He starts to say something, but you cut him off. “What is your blood color?”

          “Rust.”

          Mm. You take a moment to just breathe it in, savor the fear and despair and anger and _lies_. “Why, I think you must have misspoke. Do you want to try again?”

          You can hear him swallow, but he takes a deep, shaky breath, and repeats, “ _Rust_.”

          You just laugh. “So many charges, so little time! Why, only lying to an officer of the law carries a death sentence, never mind laws broken by your lusus—which you are to be held responsible for, of course—failure to submit yourself for appropriate culling, the list goes on and on! I can count at least seven death sentences so far, and we’ve barely even begun. Did you know that when you hit ten death sentences, our glorious empress’s policy is that you… _not_ die, not for quite some time, at least.”

          His hands are shaking now, no matter how he tries to hide it. “Fuck you, _I’m rust_.”

          Your cane takes him right across his thighs, and while he’s still gasping from the pain, you unsheathe your sword and trace one delicate line across his cheek. “My, what an awfully bright rust that is. One might almost say… off-spectrum?”

          He doesn’t say a word, but he’s breathing hard and absolutely _reeks_ of fear. You’re rather disappointed he hasn’t tried to break out of his restraints yet. He wouldn’t succeed of course, but it would be such a delight to watch him struggle! You don’t speak. You just watch. This isn’t _your_ problem, not at all. This is just another day on the job for you, and it’s the worst moment of his entire life.

          He cracks first. Of course he does! He is trying to put up a good front, but you can smell the fear and despair rolling off him. You wonder if you could make him beg for a quick execution. He takes a shuddering breath. “So what, now you dispense ‘justice’ or whatever horseshit you pretend is a productive use of your life?’

          You are all affront! “Why, mister Vantas! Of course not!” He’s too smart to think that he’s safe, but he still can’t help relaxing, just a hair. You grin. “Justice is for _trolls_. I’m only here to put down a wild animal.”

          When you rest your foot between his thighs, you can feel his bulge writhing under the damp fabric. He does try so very hard to smile, but it only comes out as a moan, and you just laugh and laugh and _laugh_.


	27. Terezi/Kankri: Caning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/130599232031/relationship-terezikankri-rating-m-words-1139)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> And credit for inspiration goes to [Syblatortue's gorgeous ](syblatortue.tumblr.com)[Terezi/Kankri picture](http://syblatortue.tumblr.com/post/130119461906/how-to-make-kankris-ass-even-more-delectable), which really helped me find my way into a story for this excellent ship.

                Even once he’s naked, it takes Kankri some time to get settled to his satisfaction. He fusses with the placement of the clutter on your table and says some snide things about a cluttered hive being a sign of a cluttered mind. But you are not fooled! You just grin and watch and refuse to give him the satisfaction of engaging. He fidgets, inching your books and scalemates left, then back right—left again— But you can smell the nervousness on him.

                He does give it up eventually. He braces himself on the edge of your table, arches himself up so _prettily_ for you, sniffs, and says, “You may begin, then. I suppose.”

                You pause. Just long enough for the silence to be… uncomfortable. “Why?”

                You can practically smell his eyebrows shoot up! He repeats, “ _Why?_ ”

                “Of course!” You wouldn’t be able to hide your grin if you tried, so why bother trying? “How do you expect me to punish you if I don’t even know what I’m punishing you for?”

                He sniffs again. If he keeps doing that, you’re going to make a point of asking him if he’s ill. Every single time. “I would _think_ that even a person of, shall we call it _limited,_ understanding, would be able to understand the, the particulars of our arrangement—“

                Your smile spreads even wider. At this rate, the top of your head will fall clean off! “Why, Mister Vantas. I do believe that might be considered a little… _ableist_.”

                He freezes with his mouth hanging open, then slowly says, “I… suppose. That. If someone were to, say, monitor my speech for imperfect word choices, then, if they were so inclined to. Ah. Well. As it were.”

                His words trail off into hopeful silence. He fidgets, uneasy, but still braced against the table, his back arched for you. You prompt, “And?”

                You can hear him swallow. “Please punish me.”

                “For what?”

                He shudders. “For being ableist.”

                He’s ready for it, but he still jumps and gasps when your cane strikes across the back of his thighs. You give him a few moments to catch his breath. “And?”

                The honey-berry smell of his eyes blinks out, and you can hear him breathing short and shallow. “Yesterday, I— failed to properly warn for triggers in a discussion—“

                You do sigh a little. Just inside your head! But you strike out with your cane again. Another pause while he recovers. “And?”

                It comes pouring out of him. It starts off small and silly, but then he’s whispering something you can’t quite make out about Mituna with his eyes squeezed tight shut, something else about Latula, with his breath coming uneven and harsh. The bright red stripes across his legs and ass are so distracting and appealing that you almost miss it when the little drops of cherry start rolling down his cheeks.

                You do pause, then. Kankri glances over at you, but then ducks his head back down and arches his back even further, going up on his toes. He’s breathing so hard that you can barely make out anything he says, but you let it be. Whenever he pauses, you give him the punishment he asked for. His head is hanging low and his claws are digging deep into your table, but you can smell the bright twist of his bulge and the slow drip of material from his nook.

                When he begins sobbing, that’s when you stop. He shakes his head and tries to tell you something, but he really isn’t getting a single word out clearly anymore. You reach for his face and he flinches away from your hand and tries to brace himself again against the table, arch himself for you, but no. That’s enough.

                This time when you reach for his cheek, he lets you. In fact, you might even say that he leans into your hand! Even if he denies it later, the evidence is here for you to see. He’s still trying to talk, without much success. You slip a few fingers into his mouth, brush your thumb across his lips. The tears are still rolling down his cheeks and against your fingers.

                You drop your cane and run your free hand up the back of his legs, just to make him shiver. He presses into your touch there too. When you dip your hand between his thighs instead, you can feel him gasp around the fingers in his mouth. His nook is dripping, and he’s so eager for you, so greedy! He’s already arched as far as his thoracic support column will allow, but he tries to arch further, to push back onto your fingers.

                It doesn’t take much to finish him! His bulge is very determinedly trying to wrap itself around your wrist, you’ve got three fingers up his nook, and he’s still sobbing against your other hand when he shudders and releases and drenches your arm halfway to the elbow.

                Kankri’s arms buckle, and he goes to his knees. You support him as much as you can, but you still have to wince at the impact when his knees hit the floor. You wait for him to do something or say something, anything, but he just wobbles in place and doesn’t even try to say a word— which really is the biggest surprise of the evening. You can still smell him crying, and your pump biscuit gives an embarrassing little twinge.

                You are a little frozen at first! In retrospect, you aren’t quite sure how you’d been expecting this evening to end, and yet here you are. It takes you a moment or two to collect yourself, but then you nudge Kankri up again, tug at him until he starts stumbling to his feet. You aren’t at all certain he’s going to keep himself upright, so you worm up under his arm, wrapping your arm around his thorax and tugging his hand around your shoulder.

                “Wh—“ he begins. “I—“

                “Hmm.” You take a good hard sniff. “I believe that justice is, at this point, best served by… some nice long ablutions.”

                Kankri tries to draw himself up and pull away. His voice is hoarse and uneven. “I, you, if you are _patronizing_ me _—“_

                You keep a nice grip on his hand and tug him right back against you, and twist up to give him a quick kiss under his chin. You can still taste the salt. “Trust me. You want ablutions.” It takes him a few breaths for the tension to go out of him, and you carefully don’t mention the way his fingers curl tentatively around yours. He doesn’t let go of you all through the ablutions, or after, and you don’t argue even when he keeps ahold of you all the way to your recuperacoon, and until the two of you are drifting off to sleep.


End file.
